


Power Play

by Brigand_Bravado



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, New Labour, Political Campaigns, Political Parties, Politics, Sexuality, Swearing, UK Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigand_Bravado/pseuds/Brigand_Bravado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two and a half years since the Goodling inquiry and Nicola Murray has left politics, her husband and family to live her own life. She never expected to find Malcolm Tucker on her doorstep, issuing an apology and bringing her a political proposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Social Call

The rain splashed against the window all afternoon, the monotonous pattering dulled all noise in the quaint little flat. Despite the dreary and dark weather, Nicola was content to remain sprawled out on her sofa with The Times crossword in her lap.

This was her life now. No forced weekend photo-ops at hospitals. No last minute interviews with vicious journalists. And best of all, no visiting her constituency for door-knocking and meet-and-greets with nutters. Life after politics was easy. Life after politics was incredibly _dull_.

A few months after the Goodling inquiry scandal, she quietly bowed out and resigned from politics. Figures it would be the only time the journalists let her exit without as much as requesting a candid interview. A chance of sorts to let her get in a final ‘FUCK YOU’ to that scheming bastard, Dan Miller.

Well, she thought, who the fuck wants to talk about that limp-dicked little shit anyway?

She reclined her head into the cushion, closing her eyes to contemplate the next crossword hint: _who was the Kremlin Highlander?_

Knock at the door.

That was the wind, she thought, don’t get up.

Harder knocking. Insistent knocking. _Angry knocking._

She lurched off the sofa, slowly stretching and rotating her stiff shoulders as she tottered to the front door. She grabbed the doorknob and paused for a moment. It could be the landlord, but rent wasn’t due. Maybe one of her neighbours got pissed and ended up banging on the wrong door. Or worse it could be her ex-husband, James, that fucker.

Swinging the door open, she meant to yell an aggressive ‘WHAT?!’ but her brain faltered.

_Kremlin. Highlander. Scotland. Malcolm? Fuck._

“Stalin?” she gasped, shook her head and choked back a flurry of swears.

“The fuck, woman?” Malcolm Tucker said, “What about Stalin?”

“No. No no nononono!” Nicola waved her hands, “No. Sorry. Not Stalin, Malcolm- _Fucking_ -Tucker. What the bloody Christ are you doing here?”

“Oh y’know, just selling mag’ subscriptions door-to-door.”

Nicola stood incredibly still, trying to register who exactly was standing on her front steps. Where the fuck did he come from? What is he doing here now? What did he say about magazines?

“You’re selling-”

“It was a fucking joke,” he interrupted, annoyance creeping in his voice, “good to know you’re still as thick as Fat Pat’s chaffed thighs though.”

“Well you’ll have to forgive me, Malcolm. I don’t usually have convicted criminals loitering on my doorstep.”

She looked down at the man responsible for her political career’s demise. The sagging skin around his eyes, the wrinkles accentuated by lack of sleep, the cheaply cut hair and baggy and worn clothes, this was not the Malcolm Tucker she remembered. He certainly didn’t look tame and docile by any stretch of the imagination.  Nicola pictured a mangy feral cat, eight lives spent, putting up one last fight. Desperate beasts do desperate things, why else would this madman be teetering on the threshold of the woman he so brilliant and thoroughly sabotaged?

“So…” she paused, “is this a social call or are you here to bollock me for something?”

Malcolm gave a sheepish grin, “would you believe it’s just social?”

“Wait just a second-“she said, suddenly it occurred to her that Malcolm should be the last person to appear on her doorstep. “Why aren’t you still locked up?”

“Perjury,” he said, “is just a trumped up charge, love. They had to nail someone as the boogeyman, yeah?”

“When did you… get out of the ‘big house,’ as they say?”

“A few weeks ago,” he said, “on parole and all that.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t read about it in the papers,” Nicola said, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“You don’t think I can’t scare the piss out of few editors, even now?”

“I know you can still throw a tantrum,” she said, “but what can you _really_ do to them now? You’re no longer the government ghoul, yeah?”

“Hey,” he barked, “Fuck you. At least they still remember my name, you shit stain toilet paper footnote.”

Nicola flinched; the muscle memory of cowering from a verbal assault from Malcolm still hadn’t left her. Her hand gripped the door to throw it closed in his face. She would do better to be rid of him but she couldn’t quite bring herself to shut him out. Curious as to his reason for being there, making a point of standing on her steps in the rain.

“What the fuck do you want, Malcolm?”

He hesitated, raising his eyes to meet hers. He stared at her a long while, she looked away first. Malcolm clicked his tongue, weighing what words he might say to her next.

“I came,” he said carefully, “to apologize to you, Nicola.”

She smiled, then laughed and kept laughing into a roar. She failed to believe that those words, in that order, could ever be spoken by Malcolm Tucker without him spontaneously combusting.

“Fuck me sideways!” She rubbed her palm over her eye, smearing her mascara. “NOW you have remorse?”

“Let me be clear here, Nicola. Before you get the wrong idea,” he said, “you did fucking deserve to get canned. You were, no, are the stupidest politician I’ve ever met. You’re downright retarded.”

Nicola’s smug laughter halted. Of course Malcolm could only deliver a backhanded apology. She started on with “Now you just wait-“but Malcolm cut her off.

“LISTEN, alright?” he said, “You needed to go. You were shite as leader. But it doesn't mean that I’m not sorry for having to do it. You were strangling the party! Did you actually think you could fucking win us an election?”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better, Malcolm?”

“Hey, has anyone else apologized for getting you nailed to a cross?” he said, “I was doing you a favour.”

Nicola balled her fists into her frumpy paisley dress. The arrogance of Malcolm, fucking conceited prick. She felt her arms shake, not sure if she had enough in her to strike him. She wanted to plough her fist into his face.

“You have to leave now.” She managed to whisper, keeping her voice even.

“Look, what I’m _trying_ to say is that it wasn't entirely your fault for fucking everything, alright? You ARE retarded! How else would you know better? I wouldn't blame some fuckwit autistic child for shitting himself because he doesn't know better.”

“Well thanks, Malcolm.”

“But despite being a massive cock up,” he continued, “I need your help.”

“You just called me a fucking retard, Malcolm! If you wanted my help, I think you might have approached the subject in entirely the wrong way, you massive festering twat!”

“Jesus woman,” he said, “can the fucking indignation for a minute, yeah?  What the fuck else are you doing with your time that is so important? Last I heard you’re a librarian at some second-rate piss shack university.”

“Oh good, you did your homework. Yeah, I’m a librarian now.”

“Well hopefully you’ve picked up a fucking book since your fuck-up greatest hits and learnt something.”

They both glared at one another. Nicola tried to think of a witty retort to throw back at him but Malcolm was well versed in verbal sparring. Malcolm was like that stupid honey badger she saw on YouTube: Pissy, angry and not to be fucked with.

“Tell me what you want or I slam the door in your face.”

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and let out a sigh, “I need a campaign manager.”


	2. Honour Among Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honour, loyalty and hypocrisy are all relative in the game of politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell, it's a dialogue heavy fic. More action and movement comes later.

“I need a campaign manager.”

“You are fucking mad.”

Malcolm couldn’t hold back his wolfish grin. He stuck his hands in his jean pockets and chuckled to himself. “Invite me inside and I’ll explain.”

Nicola dropped her arms to her sides and gave an incredulous sigh. “Invite you inside?” she said. “Are you a fucking vampire?”

“Just get the fuck inside.” he replied and bound up the steps, pushing past her.

Nicola followed him into the living room. He spun around and eyed her flat. It was a pretty basic space; she hadn’t thought to decorate much since moving in a few months ago. She had no urge to unpack her life, it felt easier to just live out of the boxes and hope that her possessions would eventually find their place.

“I thought you just got a job at the university,” he said smugly, “I didn’t know you were also living like a student, too.”

“Oh shut up,” she said and rolled her eyes, “I had plans to move somewhere nicer.”

“Well, hold that thought for a minute and sit.”

She pushed her crossword out of the way and returned back to her spot on the sofa. Malcolm took up the chair across the coffee table. He hunched over, elbows on knees, and gave her a fierce stare but didn’t speak. Nicola sensed he was reading her face, but unsure why.

“Soooo, campaign manager?” she said. “Are you out of your fucking mind? What on earth makes you think it’s a good idea to stand in an election?”

Malcolm barked a laugh and then leaned back into his chair, relaxing. “Not a campaign manager for me.”

“So your plan is to pawn me off on your worst enemy?”

 “No, not at all, actually.” he said with a smirk. “I’ve been approached by an old friend in Glasgow who is planning to run in the next by-election and hoping to snag the nomination to replace that charming colostomy bag, Andy McCullough.”

“Fuck Malcolm,” Nicola hissed, “he died of bowel cancer.”

“Yeah I know, died like the way he lived. A sack of shit.”

“Alright, alright. Go on…”

“Yeah, anyway, they originally wanted me to run the campai-“

“Brave man.”

“Shut up, ya fucking dozy cow.” Malcolm said. “This being a special favour, I would do it myself but unfortunately with my notoriety, I’d torpedo the chances of getting the nomination, let alone winning the election.”

“Are you so sure? I thought you’d be like the town hero.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.” he said. “McCullough’s cronies still have their liver-spotted fists up the arses of the members of the constituency executive. None of them have been fans of me since I stuck shitdick on the backbench for awarding a transport contract to the former constituency Chief Financial Officer.”

“So does your candidate know this? Are they aware you’re recruiting me?”

“Yeah, they are well aware of the situation. We’ve worked out a compromise and I think it’s to your benefit as well.”

Nicola leaned back and rested her arms on the back of the sofa and nodded. “Oh yeah…?”

“You’re going to be the front man for the campaign. From the sidelines, I’ll be calling the shots and guid-.”

“Hang on, so really all you want is a puppet.” she said, and huffed in protest. “I should have known it was bullshit.”

“Fucking listen, would ya?” he barked. “Half your problem is you open your fucking mouth and blow your load before you listen to anyone.”

Nicola sighed and shook her head but didn’t say anything. She gave a wave of her hand to signal him to continue. Malcolm set his bottom jaw, not quite baring his teeth in his usual way to signal his bollocking face.

“You’re a piss-poor politician who got anointed in a secure riding, I doubt you had to even campaign and work your lady-bollocks off. So not only are you retarded, you’re so far removed from grassroots politics that it’s a fucking miracle you connected with anyone in the first place.” Malcolm explained. “What I’m offering is a chance to learn the fucking dark arts and win on your own terms if you should so choose to return to politics.”

“Ok, yeah, that’s all good but why the fuck would I trust you?”

“Because, Nicola,” Malcolm said, pausing, “you, despite being a massive cock up, aren’t entirely fucking corrupt. You just don’t know where your loyalties should lie because you’ve never had to fight for anything.”

“You are a giant, fucking hypocritical wanker!” she said and bolted out of her chair and paced around with arms crossed. “Where the fuck did your loyalties ever lie, you fucking cunt?”

“My loyalty has always been with the party.” He said. “Above Tom, above you, above Dan-Fucking-Miller. What I did and what I continue to do is for my party but people like YOU have no concept of ideology.”

“I can’t believe you think that you’re ideological and loyal to anything but yourself. You’re so, so, sooooo fucking sanctimonious.”

Malcolm got up out of his chair and approached Nicola, invading her space. He towered over her, forcing her to look up at his face, jaw clenched and baring his lower teeth. This was the bollocking face.

His voice was very cool and even, not even a hint of ramping up to shout. “I’ve been with this party since I was six-fucking-teen. I have had to claw my way through the ranks. There were no mummy or daddy connections to get me hired for Local Organiser. There were no favours passed my way to secure my job as Communications Director. I’ve outmanoeuvred everyone but I have sacrificed my private life to be top dog and it sure wasn’t for the shitty fucking paycheque or the stressed induced angina. I’ve lived, breathed and bled for this party because without power, we can’t change fuck all. I’m not saying I’m at all satisfied with everything we have accomplished or I’m _proud_ of the bullshit I’ve manufactured but it has always been for a single goal in mind. Change is incremental but it cannot be done without the means to do it.”

“That’s how you justify everything evil you’ve done?” she asked.

“You, oh so righteous one,” he spat, “don’t tell me you don’t understand that ‘the ends sometimes justify the means.’”

“How very _Malc-iavellian_ of you.”

Malcolm’s mouth twitched, “The offer stands.”

He backed off and returned to his chair. Nicola remained standing and resumed pacing the room. She still didn’t trust Malcolm but what he had said seemed to make a lot of sense. It occurred to her that his personal truth of party politics, albeit severely flawed, made sense for a man who gained nothing in the rotation of political masters. Malcolm’s unique longevity in serving the party was not based in alliances between players but by positioning himself using the party structure. At his core, Malcolm was loyal only to the machine and it had made him nearly unfuckable by everyone else. Except, in the end, everyone but himself.

Nicola looked out the window, the rain had stopped.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” 


	3. Affidavit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The jarring reality of the domesticity of Malcolm Tucker and Nicola Murray

The kitchen was small, the close quarters made it hard to move from countertop to stove without bumping into one another. Nicola was mildly surprise that Malcolm had accepted her dinner invitation. Nicola was more surprised to have asked the question in the first place and she was downright astounded that Malcolm insisted he help prepare the meal. She convinced him to put on the kettle while she boiled the potatoes and fried the beef.

She nearly clipped Malcolm when she tried to skirt around him to get to the fridge just as he turned to hand her a mug. They both awkwardly manoeuvred left and right in sort of clumsy pas-de-deux. Nicola shouted for Malcolm to sit down and drink his tea; he gave his best smirk and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

 With the fridge door open, Nicola realized she had barely any ingredients to whip up a gravy or cream sauce to add to the shepherd’s pie. She moved to the cupboard, hoping she had a can of soup, or something.

“What are you looking for?” Malcolm asked.

“Something for a sauce.”

He stood up and crossed to the fridge. He opened it and inspected the contents, then grabbed an onion and the Worcestershire sauce. He spun around and joined Nicola at the cupboard, reaching over her shoulder for the can tomatoes and another can of mixed vegetables. He laid out his ingredients on the counter, retrieved a chef’s knife and set to work chopping up the onion.

“I had a handle on it, Malcolm.” Nicola protested.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you did, “he said, “but I’m not interested in eating shitty dog food.”

Nicola watched him chop the onion with precisions and speed. “Do you like to cook?”

He hummed in the affirmative as he wiped the blade over a cloth and set it down.

“This is the closest I have to a hobby,” he said, “besides ripping the arseholes out of fuckwit politicians and braiding their bowels into a necklace.”

“Oh ew.” Nicola said, wrinkling her nose.

Malcolm scooped up the onions and added them to the meat simmering on the stove. Next, he rummaged around for garlic powder, salt and pepper and sprinkled them into the pan.

“When I was an MP, I didn’t even miss cooking meals for my family but now, without the kids and James…” Nicola said, trailing off. Malcolm shifted slightly and suddenly Nicola felt her face burn, a candid admission. Her hands twitched and grasped at the air, her brain working out a way to backpedal.

“Stop that.” Malcolm said, “You look like you’re stroking out.”

“I just meant that since moving for work-“

“I really don’t care, Nicola.”

Nicola pulled her lips into a thin line and rolled her eyes. “I left him six months ago.”

“Turn down the heat on the beef.” Malcolm commanded and stuck his hand into a drawer to pull out the can opener.

“…You knew,” Nicola said, “didn’t you?”

“Aye, but that’s none of my business.” he replied, “It just makes my job easier. It’s one more reason for you to come to Glasgow.”

“I’m trying to start a new life here,” she answered, leaning against the counter, having given up the position of lead chef.

Malcolm opened the can of tomatoes and vegetables, drained the water in the sink, and then emptied them into the pan of meat. “So what?” he said with a shrug, then adding a few dashes of Worcestershire sauce.

“I have a job and a flat here,” she protested, “I can’t just up and leave.”

Malcolm didn’t reply, now he was draining the potatoes, then added milk, butter, and salt. He started mashing them furiously. Nicola sighed and rolled her eyes again, her go-to reaction to Malcolm Tucker nonsense. She grabbed her mug and poured herself another cup of tea.

Nicola took up a chair at the table and watched Malcolm work over the potatoes. He might be lanky and thin like a coke fiend, Nicola thought, but clearly he’s still in fighting form.

All his attention was on preparing his culinary masterpiece; he ignored Nicola’s blatant staring, it was all so _domestic_. He transferred the meat mix into a casserole dish and layered the potatoes on top before popping it into the oven to golden.

“Fancy a drink, then?” she asked.

Malcolm turned around and gave an affirmative shrug and a nod before sitting down at the table. Nicola got up and pulled out a chilled bottle of white from the fridge and grabbed the bottle opener from the drawer. It was Malcolm’s turn to watch Nicola’s pathetic attempts at physical labour. She tried to brace her bottle between her knees and jerk the cork out of the neck; Malcolm shook his head feeling embarrassed on her behalf. “Give it here before you pop yourself in the face.”

“I. Got. This.” she said, spastically tugging.

Malcolm got up and snatched the bottle away before she could harm anyone. He gave the bottle opener a sharp pull and popped the cork. Nicola, meanwhile, found two wine glasses. Malcolm poured out the wine and they both sat down again at the table.

She could help but crack a smile, taking a drink of wine. What would Ollie or Glen say if they saw this little scene? She didn’t talk to either anymore; they were banished from her life for their separate betrayals. But then again, her greatest nemesis was sharing a meal with her. Some things come full circle.

“Why are you smiling?” Malcolm glared at her.

“I was just thinking about how strange it is to have you here.” Nicola said, “I honestly thought you were out of my life forever and I was relieved. I didn’t spend even a minute thinking about you or about politics the moment I packed up my life and started over. I thought I had a clean slate.”

Malcolm took a sip of his wine. He raised his eyes above the rim to look at Nicola. She didn’t turn to make eye contact; instead she focused on the kitchen window.

“I don’t trust you.” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Malcolm replied, “this is a business transaction. I get a frontman and you get a way back into politics.”

“I don’t _want_ a way back into politics, Malcolm!”

“Yes, you do,” he said, “else you wouldn’t have invited me inside and definitely wouldn’t be fucking having me for dinner. Speaking of which-“

Nicola made to protest but Malcolm got out of his chair, ignoring her huffs, and went to the oven, removing the shepherd’s pie. He cut up two squares and dished them out on plates. He handed one to Nicola and with his, he sat back down.

“You are right the arse, you know that, right?”

“All this time,” he said between bites, “and I never knew.”

“Fuck off.” Nicola said, taking an aggressive bite out of her pie.

“So that’s it then. Settled?”

“No,” she said, scowling at Malcolm, “it’s not! I’m not moving to Glasgow! I can’t! I have a lease on the flat and a job and I’m still battling that fucker, James, and the solicitors.”

“Well the flat is taken care of.”

“What?”

“I spoke to your landlord before visiting you.”

“You fucking did WHAT?!” Nicola yelled and slammed her fists on the table, shaking the plates and wine glasses.

“I told him I was your husband and that we reconciled,” Malcolm replied with a grin, “and that if he didn’t let you out of your lease, I would have the police investigate him on suspicion of drug trafficking.”

“Jesus Christ! Is he actually a drug trafficker?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Probably not but I smelled marijuana in his office.” he said. “Besides, we both know I have the power to persuade people.”

“You fucking Tucker’d him.”

“So it’s settled, yeah?”

“No, it is not settled!” Nicola shouted, “Even if I said yes now, I have to pack all this!”

“I told him you’d leave it all and he can sell it to cover some of the rent money.”

“I fucking hate you so fucking much.”

“Nicola!” Malcolm shouted, finally losing his patience, “Stop fucking about! You’re going to Scotland, you know you are!”

“I’m really not!”

“Do you want to spend your miserable shitty life, with your limp dick in your hand, being a forgotten write-off political hack?! You really are a spineless bag of cum. JUST FUCKING SAY YES!”

Nicola’s sight blurred, she felt the tears welling up and threatening to spill over. She didn’t want Malcolm to see her break down and admit her fears. It was safe here in exile; it was her penance for being utter shit as a leader, a wife, and a mother.

She held back the tears and fought to keep her voice even. “I’ll disappoint you again.” she whispered.

Malcolm gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m well aware of what I’m getting, you’re no surprise, pet.” he said, “So don’t fucking worry about that.”

“I still don’t trust you.”

“I don’t want to call you an idiot,” Malcolm said while twirling his wine glass between his thumb and index, “but you are fucking dense if you don’t see the advantage you have over me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t be involved in the campaign directly,” he said and pulled an envelope from inside his suit jacket, “so I’m giving you a signed affidavit describing my role and the proposition I’ve offered you as insurance that I am not trying to fuck you over.”

He handed the envelope over to Nicola; she inspected it and traced her fingers against the wax seal. Nicola looked Malcolm in the face. She tried to discern a hint of deception but instead she was met with the most surprising kind eyes.

“Alright.”  


	4. Keep Calm and Move on (To Glasgow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commit and move forward, Nicola hits reset on her life for a second time.

 

After dinner, Malcolm retired to the living room with the bottle of wine. He rested comfortably on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table and glass in hand. Nicola migrated to and from her bedroom to the full length mirror hanging in the corridor with an armful of clothes, she held up an outfit in front of her, one at a time. Occasionally she’d peak around the corner and show Malcolm what she selected.

She held up a vibrant raspberry dress with a keyhole cut-out to modestly show a glimpse of cleavage. “Yes or no?”

“That’s a no. You’re not a cabaret dancer; you’re running a campaign office.” Malcolm said, waving his hand around.

“Sod that,” she said, “we’ll still have functions to attend and I’m not dressing like a funeral director.”

“You can’t upstage your candidate, either.”

Nicola huffed and threw the dress on the ‘No’ pile. She held out a gray and blue pinstripe blazer and matching skirt.

“That’s fine.” he said.

“Why don’t I just bring a roll of fucking wallpaper and wear that?”

“How the fuck is packing a few weeks of clothes a fucking chore?”

“Malcom!” Nicola shouted, “I refuse to be ‘Glummy Mummy’ all over again.”

“You aren’t fucking Lady Gaga,” he said, “this isn’t the time to reinvent yourself, you dowdy bint.”

“I’m not taking fashion advice from you.” she said and picked up the red dress off the reject pile and folded it nicely into her suitcase lying on the living room floor.

Nicola trotted off to her bedroom again and didn’t return from a long while. Malcolm sat patiently and poured himself another glass of wine. He flipped through a stack of magazines on the table, at the bottom of the pile he pulled out a folded letter. It was a printed email correspondence between Nicola and her daughter, Ella. Malcolm’s eyes scanned the back-and-forth and then he quickly pocketed the note. 

Nicola suddenly round the corner again with a drawer pulled from her dresser in her arms. She struggled to hold onto the oversized heavy container.

Malcolm quickly got up and tried to take the large drawer from her hands but she held tighter. “Just let go!” she said just as Malcolm relented. Nicola staggered backwards, nearly dropping the drawer, causing the contents to spill out.

Malcolm bent over to pick up the clothing.

“Don’t touch that!” Nicola shouted. He froze, hand clutching cloth.

Malcolm looked at the article in hand. Black, dainty lace knickers.

“Christ! Nicola!” he yelled and tossed the undergarment in the box.

Nicola set the drawer down on the chair and quickly collected the bras and panties littering the floor. She scowled at Malcolm and swore at him under her breath.

Malcolm picked up his wine glass and took a large swig before sinking back into the sofa.

“I _was_ trying to be discreet, you tosser.” she said as she dumped all the knickers unceremoniously on top of all of her folded suits. She quickly zipped up the suitcase and pushed it over to the door with the other bags and boxes.

Malcolm grimaced and rubbed his face. “Are ya done?”

“Nearly,” Nicola replied, “it helps that I barely unpacked anything when I moved here. I’m leaving all the furniture and kitchen ware so I just have my files and papers to sort.”

“Just toss them into a box; we don’t have time to fuck about.” Malcolm said, “I’m coming to collect you at seven a.m.”

“Yeah, about that.” she said and yawned and checked her watch.

“What-fucking-now?”

“You should just stay with me.”

Malcolm whipped his head around, eyeing her with a raised eyebrow. Nicola blinked and cocked her head, befuddled.

It took a beat before her eyes widened with realization. “Not like that!”

Malcolm barked a laugh and said: “Fucking hoped not.”

“You’ve been drinking.” Nicola explained, “Sleep on the sofa.”

“Fine,” he said, “get me a pillow.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sunday morning came, dreary and cold. Malcolm was cocooned up tightly in a comforter, sleeping on the sofa. He snored softly, not even stirring as Nicola approached barefooted and wrapped in her fluffy housecoat.

She softly spoke his name but he slept on.

She suddenly felt slightly embarrassed for Malcolm. He didn’t seem so menacing, just a grumpy middle-aged man. All the anger and vitriol he harvested drained out of him while he slept. She always pictured Malcolm like a rabid dog twitching in his sleep, and ready to snap awake to bite an intruder.

She stretched out a hand, lightly touching the top of his head, wondering if he would indeed bite her. “Wake up.” she said with a firm voice.

Malcolm’s eyes slowly opened and Nicola quickly withdrew her hand. He sat up and groped for his phone stashed under his pillow.

He checked the time. “Five-forty-fucking-five.” he said and stretched his back and shoulders.

“If you want to be on the road by seven-“

“Yeah yeah,” he said groggily, “I’m going to take a shower.” Malcolm got up, and pushed past Nicola to head to the bathroom.

“Of course,” she said to herself, “Malcolm Tucker isn’t a morning person.”

 

* * *

 

Nicola, with her back tuned, didn’t notice Malcolm approach her at the kitchen counter until he was at her side. She jumped, surprised by his presence, and by the toaster popping.

She swore and mopped up the coffee she spilt; Malcolm swiped her toast and ghosted away to the kitchen table. She joined him, after making herself another toast, and bought two coffee cups, passing one to Malcolm.

He ate quietly, ignoring Nicola who kept trying to catch his eye. She cleared her throat to get his attention. “Do you want me to drive part of the way?” she asked. “You could sleep a bit more in the car.”

Malcolm scowled, took a large drink of his coffee and finally looked up at Nicola. “No, it’s fine.”

“I’ve finished packing my paperwork,” she said, “so we can leave as soon as we finish eating.”

Malcolm didn’t respond. “Would you like me to pack us sandwiches for the road? It’ll save us time, not having to st-“

“Just,” he groaned, “stop fucking talking until I’m entirely awake.”

It wasn’t until they were in the Malcolm’s black, series 7 BMW that his mood seemed to improve. By this point, Malcolm’s foul mood had rubbed off on Nicola who now frowned and sat silently in the passenger seat.

He didn’t try to apologize or win her over; it was far more comfortable driving in relative silence, just listening to talk radio and news updates. However, after two hours of a pouting Nicola, Malcolm tuned the radio to a rock station.

He blasted the music, the bass shaking the car. Nicola huffed and covered her ears and glared at Malcolm. He bellowed laughter and began singing along. Nicola gaped at him incredulously.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nicola shouted over the music.

“What the fuck does it look like?” he said, interrupting his singing. “It’s The Clash.”

Having tortured Nicola long enough, he turned down the music. She punched his arm and said: “Done with that, yeah?”

He barked a laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’re fucking mental.” she said, “When did you develop any sort of sense of humour? The Malcolm I knew use to be just a hateful son of a bitch.”

“Hey,” he said, pulling a serious face, “I didn’t have to be funny with you lot. You were enough of a fucking joke that I could go home and laugh myself into hysterics.”

“Ah, there we go. Back to business.” she said then paused, “…Have you been in contact with any of the others since your return?”

Malcolm glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “No.”

“I spoke to Ollie briefly after I resigned.” she said. “He sounded as if he wanted to blow his brains out.”

“What did he want?”

“He and Dan-Fucking-Miller wanted me to promise I’d go away quietly and wouldn’t speak to the media about backing any candidates who wanted to replace me.”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘I’ll keep out of it.’”

“Good,” said Malcolm, “you’ll be shitting in their cornflakes when our candidate wins.”

 

* * *

 

It was late afternoon when Nicola and Malcolm arrived at the flat. Nicola grabbed her suitcase and two large canvas bags stuffed with clothes, Malcolm grabbed her box of paperwork and another box of Nicola’s personal effects.

They walked up the two flights of stairs; Malcolm set a box down and rummaged in his pocket for the key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open then stepped aside to let Nicola through.

It was small, surprisingly smaller than her London flat and obviously already being lived in by the state of unclean dishes on the tables and men’s jumpers piled on the back of the sofa.  She took a peak around the corner leading into the hall, one bedroom and a bathroom. No second bedroom.

“Uh, Malcolm,” Nicola said, “is this your flat?”

“Was my flat,” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll be living here,” he explained, “I can’t afford a second flat on the campaign budget. I’ve made arrangements to live elsewhere to give you privacy.”

“That’s ludicrous!” she said walking around and inspecting the mould growing on an apple core sitting in a bowl of equally mouldy cereal. “But, ah- It’s probably for the best.”

“Hey, don’t you start.” he said with a growl in his voice, “I’ve been busy.”

Nicola flopped down on the sofa. “It’s fine, actually.”

“Good.” he replied, pulling out his phone from his pocket to send a quick text. “Let’s go meet our candidate.”


	5. Saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sudden symptoms of pseudo-claustrophobia present in subject, Nicola Murray, triggered by impulsive and irreparable decision-making. 
> 
> Treatment: man the fuck up.

After nearly ten hours in a car driving from the outskirts of South London to Glasgow, Nicola would have preferred to lie on the plush, red sofa in Malcolm’s tiny living room. But with the promise of caffeine, Nicola gave in and dragged herself off the cushions to walk the few blocks to a local coffee shop to meet their candidate.

As they left the flat, the sun was already hanging low, casting long shadows on the bricks and pavement. These were the first days of autumn. A rush of cool air picked up dirt and flittered lost pamphlets down the skip.  The neighbourhood was deserted on this early Sunday evening. With Malcolm keeping his stride with hers, he showed her down the street and around the corner to the main stretch of road.

The red brick buildings added a sense of hominess and warmth to an otherwise run-down district. Stores with barred windows and graphitised walls gave the sense of a hard-knock town. Malcolm Tucker, son of Glasgow, seemed to absorb the local character and reinvigorate him with air of belonging.

“Here,” he said suddenly and pulled on Nicola’s sleeve to turn her attention towards the coffee shop. They entered and were greeted by the scent of strong caffeine and Latin music.

 _Café Olé_ was a family owned Spanish inspired coffee shop decorated with flags of South American countries hanging from the walls and ceiling. Obviously not much for cultural sensitivity as several of the countries featured were not Spanish speakers.

Malcolm scanned the few occupied tables, raised his hand and drew the attention of a woman at the back of the café. Nicola could see from a distance that this woman was at least a decade younger, quite blonde with a pleasing lithe figure. She had a sort of striking angular face, not particularly traditionally pretty but one had the sense she photographed well.

She stood up as Malcolm approached and they exchanged greetings before embracing. She kissed Malcolm’s cheek before leaning past him and extending a hand towards Nicola.  “Hello, I’m Victoria Innis,” she said with a thick Scottish accent to rival Malcolm’s.

“Nicola Murray, pleasure.” she grasped Victoria’s hand.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Malcolm said and pointed Nicola to her seat.

Nicola was taken aback by the familiarity and warmth between Malcolm and Victoria. She took his hand in hers and they made small talk about mutual acquaintances while Nicola listened quietly, wondering if she was just a chaperone for two forbidden lovers. Between their chattering, the waiter came over and Nicola ordered coffee for herself and Malcolm.

Nicola, having enough of being ignored, cleared her throat. “So, Victoria,” she said, “I understand Malcolm’s spoken to you about me but he seems to have forgotten to mention _anything_ about you.”

“You didn’t ask,” Malcolm cut in, “because, I’m guessing, you thought it was some middle aged fuckwit tosser, yeah?”

“Since you can apparently read my fucking mind,” Nicola countered, raising her voice, “I’d have thought you would have corrected my natural assumptions.”

“Hey now, low roar please.” Victoria interrupted, “Malcolm and I actually discussed this, and we both agreed that avoiding specifics was preferable until you were on board. We’ve had to stay under the radar.”

“So mind what you say while we’re in public,” Malcolm said to Nicola, “this is just formal introductions. There’ll be time to talk shop later.”

“Oh please, “Nicola said and snorted a laugh, “you’re not James Bond.”

The waiter arrived and set Nicola and Malcolm’s coffees down and Victoria signalled for a refill. Malcolm eyed the cup, as if unsure where it came from. Nicola huffed, flourished her hand at the mug. “I ordered it for you, Malcolm,” she said, an air of annoyance edging into her voice.

Victoria snickered, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and head resting on her hands. “So tell me Nicola,” she said, “what was it like for you to work with Malcolm, back in the day?”

 “Oh, I like to compare it to one of those _Saw_ movies,” Nicola said and poured some milk and a spoon full of sugar into her mug, “you know, thoroughly abused and beaten to the point where you’re willing to chew through your own arm as a means to escape but then you fall into a trap door and the only way to escape that is if you had two hands to pull the levers simultaneously but of course, you chewed off your hand so I guess you’re just going to die in the pit with the rats waiting for you to weaken enough to eat you while you’re still half alive.”

“Well Jesus,” Victoria muttered, “I knew you had a reputation, Malc.”

“She’s just being fucking dramatic,” he replied, “I was downright saintly.”

“I’m not so naïve as to believe _that_.”

“Then that begs the question,” Nicola said turning to Victoria, “what are you doing recruiting Malcolm and I?”

“Who better to assist me in my political aspirations than the former government enforcer?”

“And me?”

“I thought you were a package deal,” Victoria said, giving Malcolm a side glance.

“Not exactly.” Nicola said with a hint of apprehension.

 “I hope you’ll enjoy working for me,” she said, “being that it is a temporary position, I’m very grateful you’d leave your employment to help. I’m not sure if Malcolm discussed compensation but I’ve budgeted 350 quid a week, which I know isn’t much but he’s also agreed to cover your living expenses.”

“Oh,“ Nicola said, faltering, “that’s—“

Maybe it was having been bamboozled by Malcolm’s earnest speech on political integrity or the romanticism of adventure that caused her serious lapse in judgement but it was only now that Nicola finally reconcile the idea that she was sitting in a café, having abandoned her flat and her job, with her only prospects a temporary position for a woman who hadn’t even secured her nomination.

The room felt thirty degrees hotter, Nicola could feel herself redden, the alarm must be written on her face. The edge of her vision blurred, she felt a familiar sense of tightness, trapped in a corner. She sensed the walls leaning in, squeezing and bearing down on her. The sudden rush of anxiety felt like the onset of a claustrophobia attack.

She forced a smile through the feeling of cold sweat and cleared her throat, “Do you mind if I pop out for a moment? I just remembered I need to make a call to my daughter.”

 

Victoria agreed, nodding, unsure what had just transpired to make Nicola flee. Malcolm didn’t react; he watched her rush from the table, nearly colliding with the waiter bringing Victoria’s coffee.

 

* * *

 

Outside, Nicola pulled out her mobile and made like she was calling someone, a ruse in case either Malcolm or Victoria watched her through the front window. She paced around in circles swearing to herself under her breath before ducking around the corner, dropping into a crouch, throwing her arms over her face. Nicola took shallow breaths, focusing on the breathing exercises her therapist had encouraged her to practice when she felt the edge of anxiety creep upon her.

This was all wrong. This was a giant mistake. Fucking reckless! Nicola was never so irresponsible in her life. For all the mistakes she had made, none could be attributed to impulsive whims.

“Are you going for a piss there, Nicola?” Malcolm asked, suddenly standing at her side.

“Fuck Malcom,” she said, letting out a sob, “I’ve made a mistake.”

“No you haven’t. Get off the fucking ground; you look like you’re trying to shove your head up your own fanny.”

She clutched the brick wall and pulled herself up, tittering on her high heels. She leaned against the wall and turned to Malcolm, “I can’t do this. What happens if we fail? I’m out of a job.”

“More reason you can’t afford to fuck this up.”

“I’m being serious!”

“You’ll be alright,” Malcolm said, “I won’t turn you out if we shit the bed. You can always start over.”

“Are you not fucking listening to me, Malcolm?!”

“Oi! You’re the one not fucking listening!” Malcolm said, turning and grabbing Nicola by the shoulder, “If you hadn’t run out of there just now, you’d have found out that Victoria is a self-made businesswoman. Show her that you can keep your fucking wits about you and she’s going to make sure you’re rewarded. Think of this like an extended job interview.”

“I thought you’d disapprove of patronage? Mister-Claw-Through-The-Ranks,” Nicola said, pushing Malcolm’s hand off her.

“Shut your gaping maw,” he replied, “it isn’t patronage if you actually do your fucking job. So you better get the fuck on board and prove you’re not the spastic-batty-former party leader, alright? I’ve put my own reputation on the line for—“

“What reputation, exactly?”

“Are you being funny?” he said, setting his jaw and bearing his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Nicola said, “that slipped out. I just meant—“

“Are you going to fucking do this? Are we finished with the little dramatic crisis? Because you can’t have a breakdown every forty-fucking-five minutes.”

“Fine, yeah. Done.” Nicola said, turning her head, sulking.

“It’s ok, Nicola.” Malcolm said, suddenly his voice dropping to a calm whisper, “I—We won’t fail you if you just cooperate.”

“Christ, you make it sound like I’m a prisoner.”

“If I see you starting to chew your fucking arm off…” Malcolm said with a grin, “But c’mon, let’s go wrap up with Victoria and I’ll walk you home.”


	6. King-Bishop-Pawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola doesn't know what to make of Malcolm in the best of situations.
> 
> Victoria is just as smart, beautiful and lovely as Nicola thinks she is. Fuck. 
> 
> Malcolm just wants to annihilate his opponents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light sexual content in this chapter. The very, very minimum mention of female masturbation.
> 
> Also just general notes about the political talk, a lot of it is taken from what I know of Canadian and parliamentary politics. I've cross-checked most of it to fit the U.K. but there may be discrepancies. If you see any gaffes like titles, spellings, procedures, please let me know. I am also still looking for a Brit-Picker for the more general things.

After a quick apology and another round of coffee accompanied by their first strategy briefing for the following day, Nicola and Malcolm parted ways with Victoria. The pair walked briskly, the cool air uncomfortably breezy for their light coats. Malcolm could have easy outpaced Nicola but instead he walked by her side, almost huddling together in the darkness that had fallen early with the thick clouds rolling in from the west, blocking out the last rays of the sun.

Malcolm did the honours of unlocking and opening the door for Nicola. The blast of warm air from the flat was a blessing upon entering. She unbuttoned her coat and folded it over the arm of the sofa; Malcolm stood in the doorway.

“Right then,” he said, “The bed’s made up, make yourself at home. Ignore the mess; I’ll be coming over in the morning.”

Nicola looked up and walked back towards Malcolm slowly. She knitted her hands together, unsure exactly how to word her thoughts properly without the scene playing out like a trashy rom-com. “This is starting to feel like déjà vu,” she said and chuckled nervously, “but I feel awful for turning you out of your flat and taking your bed. You should stay and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Malcolm looked around, giving a sardonic grin. “No offense Nicola,” he said, trying to play off the situation, “but it’s a small space and if I’m locked up with you more than I have to, there may be murder charges to top off the perjury.”

“Right, yeah,” Nicola replied quickly, “see you in the morning then.”

 

Malcolm turned to leave but stopped, as if he were to say something else but paused before adding a quick ‘Goodnight’ and closing the door behind him.

* * *

 

Had she had known that she would barely sleep the night, tossing around in Malcolm’s bed fretfully; Nicola wouldn’t have bothered to set an alarm. Any dream she had was pierced with an overwhelming sense of dread and despair. Several dreams involved her being canned by Malcolm, who had somehow managed to learn to breathe fire. She also dreamt up full conversations with her boss, who also somehow managed to axe her upon hearing Nicola was quitting her job at the university library. 

Nicola had resigned herself to no sleep by four a.m. so she camped out on the sofa, clutching her mobile, and waited until six-thirty to ring up her boss at home.

“He-hello?” a soft and sleepy voice answered after three rings.

“Hello Anise,” Nicola said, getting up and pacing around the living room, “I’m so sorry to call you this early.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes- Well, no. I’m calling— and I’m so sorry for the short notice— because I’m quitting.”

“Why on earth? What’s the matter?” Anise replied now sounding very awake.

“It’s just-“Nicola paused, “personal matters concerning James— the divorce. It’s just all going to shit I’m afraid!” Nicola hoped she had enough acting skills to feign a shrill plea.

“Oh love,” Anise said, cooing, “I understand, why don’t you take some time off and we can work something out. You have holidays to take anyway, call me in two weeks and see how it goes from there, alright?”

“Oh you’re a saint, Anise,” Nicola sighed.

The call ended, Nicola rested her forehead against the window. The coolness calmed her nerves. That went better than she expected, much better. “Ok,” she said to herself, “fuck yes, I can do this!”

“Good,” Malcolm said from the archway.

Nicola jumped, cursing at him. “Jesus Christ, Malcolm! I didn’t even hear you come in!”

“I heard you on the phone, I figured I’d let myself into my own flat.”

“Yes, of course.” Nicola said, suddenly realizing she was standing in the living room in her silk nightgown. She crossed her arms over her chest to protect some sense of modesty but the short and airy nighty left little to the imagination. “I’m, ah- I’m going to pop in the shower.”

 

“That’s good, Victoria will be up here in a minute. She’s parking the car.” Malcolm said, sitting down on the couch and unpacking his laptop, ignoring Nicola’s painfully awkward gestures to cover herself as she slinked off to the bathroom.

* * *

 

Nicola pulled her nighty over her head as she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She leaned over the counter; topless and nude save for her white cotton panties.  The overhead lighting, Nicola noted, did nothing to hide the dark circles under her eyes from the lack of sleep. But it did highlight her chestnut hair and the dim yellow glow blended out any hint of grey.

_Malcolm said Victoria was on her way up. Did they come here together? Or did they meet outside the building?_

Nicola cupped her breasts and pushed them up. She wasn’t ashamed of her body, it was the body of a woman with four kids and that was something to be proud of… but when did it start to sag so much? She turned around, to inspect her backside.

_My arse looks like a deflated volleyball._

She couldn’t help but come back to thinking about Victoria, all thin and dainty. She was the sort of woman other women instinctively hated. It wasn’t enough that she was attractive, blond and tall. She was also successful- apparently.

_I bet Malcolm’s sleeping with her. He didn’t say it, he didn’t have to, but he must be shacking up with her._

She looked down at her hands; even they were starting to show their age, dark spot, and thin skin over the veins. She was still wearing her wedding band. She should take it off.

_But I’ll lose it, misplace it. Malcolm still wears his and he’s…_

Was Malcolm married? Divorced? Separated?

 _Oh! I bet Victoria is actually his wife and they’re hiding it!_ Nicola snorted a laugh.

_No, look at the state of his flat. He’s definitely single._

“What do I care about Malcolm-Fucking-Tucker’s love life?” she said snickering to herself.

Nicola turned on the shower, dropped her knickers and stepped under the spray. She let the water soak her hair, weighing it down, fringe in her eyes. The water warmed up, nearly scolding her skin, but it felt so good. Her body was finally relaxing, accepting where she was and that everything was falling into place with surprising ease. Two weeks holidays to prepare for the campaign and secure Victoria’s nomination. After that, she would have to decide if she could stay or if she would have to return to London and search for a new flat.

“Oh why did I let Malcolm give away my things? I should bill him for that, the bastard.” Nicola said, a smile stretching across her face. “He could always talk me into anything. I’m an idiot and he’s…”

_Not the beast I thought he was?_

She shook her head and shut her eyes tight. Thinking of Malcolm as anything but the ghoul of government was distressing. He certainly wasn’t a friend.

_But he’s an ally._

Nicola ran her hands down her body, massaging her neck and shoulders. She trailed her palms over her chest, down her breasts and stomach. She kneaded her fingers into the small of her back, trying to break the tension in the muscles.

“He’s not so bad.” she muttered and slipped a hand in between her legs, running her fingers between her folds, sighing softly.

A loud bang on the door pulled her abruptly out of her day dream. Malcolm. Yelling. Ugh.

 

“Yeah alright!” she shouted back over the noise of running water, “Piss off!”

 

* * *

 

“Ah by the love of Christ!” Malcolm said in a mocking tone as Nicola entered the living room. “We thought you drowned.”

“Yeah, fuck you very much.”

“No really, I was telling Victoria ‘I think she hit her head and passed out in the water’ and we thought we’d find your bloated waterlogged corpse in the tub.”

“Well I’m here now so calm down.”

“I made you some coffee, Nicola” Victoria said, coming out of the kitchen with a cup in hand.

Nicola accepted it and sat down in the armchair. Victoria joined Malcolm on the couch, careful to avoid his stacks of papers and folders.

“So,” Victoria said, playfully bumping shoulders with Malcolm, “our first official ‘insiders’ meeting!”

Malcolm scowled, “Yeah, so strategy time.” he said, “There are two weeks left that a by-election can be called. We’re operating under the assumption that with the current political climate, the PM is waiting until the last possible day to call it to give his cronies enough time to mount a campaign.”

“Has there been any word on our constituency association finding another candidate to nominate?” Victoria asked.

“I’m hearing rumours of Graham Harris,” Malcolm replied, “But he’s a horse-faced tosser who can’t tie his own velcro trainers.”

“Sorry for not being up to speed here but why don’t the locals want you as the candidate?” Nicola said, taking a sip of her coffee.

Victoria laughed and leaned back, draping her arms over the sofa, “Because I’m a woman in the tech industry and I wouldn’t let the local union bully me so I withdrew my plans for a factory and moved it to Cardiff.”

“Oh Christ,” Nicola said and rubbed her forehead, “and you think you’re going to win the nomination, let alone get any votes in the by-election?”

“Normally no, but we put out whispers of another factory opening in the area a few months ago, around the time I was officially bought out of my company. We spun the narrative that I was pushed out and my departure was on the condition that the next production site is here.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Nope,” she said, “between us, I asked to leave and took a very generous package. I didn’t officially make a deal with my company to open a new site in Glasgow but I did tell them that if I were to get elected, I would secure them land on which to build and I would force the unions to co-operate with the promise of jobs and contracts. It was enough to get rumour mill churning.”

Malcolm sat back; arms crossed, watching Nicola work through the details. Victoria draped her arm around his shoulders, lightly playing his the seam on his jumper.

“Most work-a-day people here don’t care or don’t know about the feud but, bollocks for us, the President and the Vice-President of the constituency association executive are two union big wigs so they feel it is in their interest to nominate their own candidate.” Malcolm added.

“And, not to mention what you told me about Andy McCullough and his shifty dealings.” Nicola said. “Have any of the party hacks found out you’re involved yet, or is that still secret?”

“Nothing points to them knowing- yet.” he said. “So we have to act fast and pull the support for Victoria. Once she’s got the nomination, it’s all hands on deck for the candidate.”

“At the end of the day, they know how to hold the line. It’s all about solidarity.” Victoria said. "Once the candidate is selected, everyone gets behind them."

“So what’s our first move?” Nicola asked.

“First move is to get your faces known,” Malcolm said with a Cheshire grin, “you’re going to meet an old ‘friend’ of mine who's working for the press.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's coming...


	7. The Angriest Man in Scotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for Nicola Murray and Victoria Innis, The Angriest Man in Scotland also happens to be the angriest Current Affairs and Politics Editor for the Glasgow Sun.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here?!”

The rabid, five-foot-four, more piss than vinegar, Jamie MacDonald apparently didn’t appreciate unannounced guests coming into his newsroom. Or perhaps he didn’t appreciate Nicola mistaking him for an intern and asking him to fetch the Current Affairs and Politics Editor, having not realized that the sweary little man in front of her was said editor. Malcolm’s first mission for Nicola and Victoria was introductions with his former press officer and the current second-in-command at the Glasgow Sun.

A young woman looked over her cubicle wall, covering the mouthpiece of her telephone and politely asked him to keep quiet, this only prompting Jamie to snatch her phone out of her hands and yell at the person on the other end to ‘suck a bag of dicks and fuck off’ before throwing the mobile phone at a wall. Nicola and Victoria froze; both hoping that standing still would make the miniature beast forget them and move onto terrorizing more newsroom interns.

“What the fuck are you doing standing there with your thumbs up your arses?”

Apparently not.

“Get the fuck in here.” he said holding the door to his office open.

Nicola entered first, Victoria followed behind her, hiding from the verbal assault. Jamie sat down behind his desk and waved towards the two chairs. The women sat down with bated breath, waiting for Jamie to speak first.

“So,” he said, “who the fuck are you two cunts?”

Nicola cleared her throat, “I’m Nicola Murray, former MP for-“

“Holy Jesus Cunty Christ. Of course,” he said and gave a maniacal laugh, “I know who you are. You’re the ex-Labour leader cock up.”

Nicola gave her best fake smile, trying to maintain her composure. “I am, but that has nothing to do with why we’re here.”

“Good, because if you’re coming in here to write an opinion article about neutering fucking dogs or how we should implement a new carbon tax credit, you can fuck right off.”

“No, nothing like that.” she said, pinching her nose, realizing that making friends with  a hostile Jamie was unlikely at this stage, “I’m here to introduce Victoria Innis, she's seeking the New Labour nomination in the by-election.”

Victoria leaned out of her chair and extended a hand to Jamie. He didn’t move to take it; instead he shot Victoria a look of utter contempt.

“You’re both daft fuck-knobs.” he said, “Get the fuck out of my office.” Jamie stood up and gestured towards the door.

“Excuse _me_?” Nicola said, raising her voice, “What’s your fucking problem?”

“Uhhh, do you even know who the fuck I am?”

“Actually, I know exactly who the fuck you are. You were the former press officer attack dog under Malcolm Tucker. Well, until he gave you a swift kick up the arse and out the door, right?” Nicola said, taunting him.

“Oh! So are you one of his fucking nutters?”

“No, we’re not fucking nutters,” Nicola replied, “and since you seem to have a selective memory, _I’m_ the one who split the leadership vote and fucked Tom’s chosen successor out of his fucking coronation. I know from a firsthand account that you loathed Tom and his arse-wipe cronies.”

“That does nothing to endear you to me, love,” he said, barking a laugh. He sat back in his chair, twisting left and right, keeping his eyes locked on Nicola. “You are aware that you were an even bigger cockup than Tom? That’s quite the legacy.” Nicola gritted her teeth and gripped her armchair; Jamie smirked, pleased he hit a nerve.

“Listen,” Victoria said, finally getting a chance to speak and drawing Jamie’s attention, “we’re not here to campaign on your doorstep. We’re just here to make your acquaintance.”

“And we’re not insiders with Andy McCullough’s lot.” Nicola added.

Jamie cocked his head, narrowing back in on Nicola. “And what the fuck do you mean by that?”

“We know you weren’t a fan of McCullough and probably by extension his group of idiots gathering around to nominate Graham Harris either.”

Jamie’s mouth twitched, betraying his contempt for the former MP. “What makes you think that any of that shit matters to me in the slightest?”

“Well, since you hate nutters and self-serving fuckwits like McCullough…” Nicola said, “I’ve done my homework on your attacks on him and his shady patronage deals. The way you lambasted him in the paper, well it’s easy to see no love lost there.”

“Yer a fucking ‘come-from-away.' What the fuck would a London slag like you know?’”

“Hey now!” Victoria yelled, slamming her hands down on the desk. She narrowed her eyes and dropped her bottom lip, baring her teeth in a nearly Malcolm-esque impression. Nicola leaned away, the resemblance was uncanny and perhaps even more terrifying on such a normally well composed face. 

“Oh yeah? What's your fucking problem?” Jamie growled, rearing on Victoria. “You're just a fucking entitled cunt who wants to play politics. What’s wrong; bored of daddy’s money? How’s your little entrepreneur project running in Cardiff, better times than Glasgow?”

“Yeah, business is doing pretty great, you little cumbox. Better there than putting up with the jerkoff ‘Glasgow Old Boys Club.'” Victoria spat back and suddenly stood up, turning her back to Jamie. She looked at Nicola and said: “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

 

Nicola got up just as Jamie also jumped to his feet. “Yeah just fuck right off, love! I’ve no time for two sour-faced cunts.” he yelled after them as they marched through the newsroom.

* * *

 

Outside the office Victoria paced around muttering to herself under her breath. Nicola leaned against the office building wall, looking up at the miserable overcast skies.

“He’s right the tosser,” Victoria said, fishing in her purse for a pack of smokes, “some god damn nerve.”

“Christ, Malcolm said he was rough around the edges but I didn’t know he literally is a rabid little wanker.” Nicola replied and chuckled. “And yet, I think I’ve been on the receiving end of worse from Malcolm.”

Victoria lit a fag and took a long drag, she offered up her pack to Nicola who waved it off. “He’s been nothing but nice to me since I’ve known him, it always strikes me funny that his reputation is so bad according to you and other acquaintances.”

“He’s got charm when he wants to woo you or trick you into a false sense of security. The rest of the time you better hope you packed a second pair of knickers”

“So what are we going to tell Malcolm about Jamie?”

“Eeeh, I don’t know. He’s not going to be happy that he ripped us a new one or that you stormed out after calling him a ‘cumbox.’” Nicola said. “Brilliant bit of swearing that, by the way. It looks like Malcolm’s rubbing off of you too.”

Victoria hummed in agreement, took one last drag of her fag and stomped it out on the ground.

“Do you think Jamie made the connection about Malcolm? I only mentioned him in passing. I didn’t mean to directly implicate him in the campaign.” Nicola said.

“Maybe…” Victoria replied. “He seemed to get agitated when you made mention of him.”

Victoria began walking down the road, pulling out her mobile to check the time, Nicola trotted to catch up. The pair walked together heading towards Malcolm’s flat.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Victoria said, “for storming out. I know that wasn’t the plan but he pushed my buttons.”

“It’s alright, I don’t think he expected you to storm off so maybe that was a smart move to take hold of the situation. But what exactly upset you?”

Victoria paused, brushed her blond hair out of her eyes and glanced at Nicola. She was a very private person on principal but Nicola would have to find out sooner or later why she faced so much opposition from the party and the papers.

 “My family is from Glasgow, I grew up here. We’re well known thanks to my great-grandfather and his ship building business but times change and my father and his siblings sold off the company to a multinational conglomerate, which pissed off a lot of people. When my dad died, I took my inheritance and planned to set up a new company, right here in Glasgow. You’d think that would please most people, a new company specializing in research and development computer science. But no, I got pushback from McCullough because there’s already a local firm that hands over nice cheques around election time- As long as they keep getting handouts. Not to mention the trumped up bullshit mess with the builders union who gave me a hard time because their leaders are pals with, guess who, McCulllough and his cronies.”

“Not to discourage you, but why even try? I was an MP and I didn’t have to deal with half of that sort of shit. You’ll be fighting against the establishment the whole way.” Nicola asked.

“Because who else will fix it?” Victoria said. “I’ve made my money, I’m set. But this is my home and it is discouraging to know that bastards like McCullough have kept a stranglehold on our economy because of backroom deals with self-interested tossers.”

They turned a corner, just a few yards away from the row of brick buildings and Malcolm’s flat. The rundown state of the buildings, the lack of green space and the downright dirty and litter filled gutters were enough to brand a town in economic disarray.

“Malcolm believes in it too,” Victoria added, watching Nicola observe the terrible state of the neighbourhood, “but he’ll never admit to being that principled. He is a pragmatist who dreams of an idealistic world but all he can do is subtly influence those around him.”

“I’d say Malcolm’s approach is anything but subtle.” Nicola said, chuckling, bemused by Victoria’s good opinion of Malcolm, “Then again, until I met Jamie, I thought Malcolm was the Scottish Beast. He’s downright reasonable compared to that bastard.”

They approached the door but before Nicola could open it Victoria stepped in front and held the door closed. “Nicola, I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ for giving us a hand. You didn’t have to get involved and I know Malcolm probably sold this to you as some kind of noble quest but I think you can see that it's going to be a rough treck."

“It’s ok, Victoria— Really.” Nicola replied, smiling at Victoria’s earnest plea. There was a kindness and genuine warmth to her despite her usual haughty appearance. Nicola didn’t want to admit that it felt good to be appreciated and needed, even if she thought her own contributions were minimal. “Besides putting up with Malcolm and well, the full frontal sweary assault by that midget bastard, I’m actually enjoying myself. I know we're the underdogs but fuck, you got me believing in you. We can get you elected."

“I’m glad you decided to stay.” Victoria said, cracking a wide smile, “Malcolm really was worried you were going to skip out after our first meeting. He’d never say it but he was really pleased you accepted his offer.”

The laughter rolled out of Nicola. “Oh yeah, well we better get upstairs before Malcolm thinks I have skipped town and abducted you.” Nicola snickered.

 


	8. Hate-Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Nicola find that trying to be friends is just slightly uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of writing a blog post to supplement some of the background information on the political factions at play in the story to help explain some things that I haven't explicitly written in yet. If you have any specific questions, I'll be happy to answer and have a link to the blog post with the next chapter, it'll be posted at my tumblr: Brigand-Bravado.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> Talisker Whisky. You know who else likes Talisker? Peter Mannion. I heard he use to fly airplanes.

Malcolm came out of the kitchen with a half empty bottle of ten-year-old Talisker single malt whisky and clutching three Glencair glasses between his fingers. He set them on the living room coffee table and poured out equal servings in each. Victoria and Nicola, who were sitting on the comfy red sofa, each took a glass. Malcolm took his, holding it up in a toast to the women before taking a drink.

“Well, how was that for you?” he said and flopped down in the armchair.

“Like being eviscerated by a wolverine.” Nicola answered and took a sip of her whisky, followed by scrunching her face at the potent liquor.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, Malc.” Victoria said, splashing her whisky around in her glass. “He’s definitely not an ally and I’m pretty sure we just angerd him more when we stormed out.”

“Especially when you called him a ‘cumbox.’”Nicola added.

Malcolm laughed and took another swig of whisky. “Good on you.” he said. “I knew he wasn’t going to like either one of you. The point was to get to be known. Did you make it clear you’re not part of McCullough’s faction?”

“Yeah we made that clear. He was pretty preoccupied with nutters…” Nicola said then dropped her voice and quickly added: “…and I might have referenced you accidentally.”

“Ah for fuck’s sake, Nicola! What did you say?”

“I just said I knew who he was!” Nicola said, pleading. “I said I knew he use to work for the party and you canned him. That’s all.”

“He did ask if we were one of ‘your’ nutters. Nicola just said ‘we aren’t nutters,’— So not really a whole denial.” Victoria added, looking back and forth between Malcolm and Nicola. “We’re sorry Malcolm.”

“That’s actually-“ Malcolm paused. “That’s not the worst possible fucking thing you could have done. Well done Nicola.”

“Really?”

“Look, he hates me as much as Julius Nicholson hates diets but he absolutely hates nutters and tory-cocksuckers more than anything else. He might have left the party but knowing Jamie— Journalistic integrity be dammed— he’ll be happy to blast his shit rockets at everyone else as long as we don’t give him reason to go feral on us.” he said. “I’m sure he’ll suspect I’m involved but I’ve got enough dirt on that wanker to keep him docile.”

“Are you so sure about that? What do you got on him?” Victoria asked.

“Oh-Seven Christmas party, I have pictures.” Malcolm said, grinning. “Someone dressed up in lady’s knickers, pissed themselves and passed out under a table.”

“Oh Christ, really?” Nicola said, cringing.

“A lesson in why you should expunge photo records of your stupidity if you fancy public service.” Malcolm said, pulling out his phone and flicking through his photo album. “By the way Nicola, you hold the record in my book for number of stupidest photo-ops while in office.”

He passed his phone to Victoria who immediately began to giggle, trying to cover her mouth and stifle the laughs. Nicola huffed, grabbed the phone and looked down at a picture of herself in front of a large, bold print sign reading ‘I AM BENT.’

“Oh fuck you, why did you keep that?”

“It makes me smile.” Malcolm said, leaning over the table to take the phone away from Nicola. “And I have more of your greatest hits too.”

“Delete that! What about expunging the fucking records, Malcolm?”

“This is for my own personal collection in case I’m ever asked for an interview for your unauthorized biography.”

“You cock.” Nicola said, crossing her arms and shooting Malcolm daggers.

“Hey now kids,” Victoria said, getting up from the couch and collecting their empty glasses, “play nice, would you? I have to get going, I have a meeting.”

“With who, exactly?” Malcolm asked, raising his eyebrow.

“None of your business, it’s entirely personal.” she responded. “I’m just meeting a friend for tea.”

She collected her coat from the closet and returned to the living room. “Goodbye.” she said, leaning over to kiss Malcolm on the top of his head. He didn’t acknowledge the gesture except for a grunt. Nicola tried to hide her sudden surprise at the display of affection, conscious that she may have just pulled a face of disapproval.

Victoria turned to her with a face lit up with a wide grin. “Well Nicola,” she said, “see you later. Not sure what you two will get up to but enjoy the afternoon.”

“Cheers,” Nicola said, giving a wave as Victoria departed.

Malcolm had pulled out his laptop from his messenger bag and banged away, typing with impressive speed with two fingers. He was solely focused on typing and clicking, not noticing Nicola shifting her gaze around the room. Sitting in silence with Malcolm was awkward enough without trying to not stare at him while he wholly ignored you. Nicola knitted her fingers together in her lap and settled for staring intensely out the window and let the minutes pass.

“Are you just going to sit there with your thumb up your arse?”

Nicola snapped her attention back to Malcolm. “Well sorry your Sweary Highness,” she said, “you haven’t given me any royal commands today— besides getting reamed by Jamie.”

Malcolm gave a wiry smirk. “Everyone needs a good fucking once in a while.”

“You’re telling me.” Nicola muttered.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Your cobweb infested twat aside,” he said, “come read this.”

Nicola dragged herself off the sofa and rounded Malcolm’s armchair, looking over his shoulder to read off his screen. It was an email from Jamie MacDonald.

It read:

 

**_Hello you sack of cum,_ **

**_I was having a perfectly lovely morning, drinking my coffee spiked with the blood of children when who should come in but Victoria ‘Bitchface’ Innis and your spastic fuckwit ex-leader, Nicola Murray. Now you wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?_ **

**_Are you mounting a campaign against the short bus brigade?_ **

**_-J._ **

 

“Fuck, he knows you’re involved.”

“Aye, but he sounds ‘on side.’” Malcolm replied, “Like I said, he knows where to get his soapy tit wank and who’s going to give it to him.”

“Oh you’re going to get him off now, are you?” Nicola said with a snicker.

“Your tits are much nicer, love.” Malcolm responded, turning to look over his shoulder and deliberately eyed up Nicola’s cleavage. “Besides, you said your dusty fanny could use a cleaning.”

Nicola pulled away and tugged up the front of her dress to cover her cleavage. “Oh ew!” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Why do I have to fuck about with that little shit? I can’t believe you’re proposing I sleep with him!”

“Naw, you wouldn’t have to fuck him, just suck up and make nice.” Malcolm said, “But since you’re looking for a lay, I hear he’s got eight inches— But can only deliver in two instalments.”

Nicola smirked, clearly the conversation was devolving into raunchy one-upmanship and be damned she’d let Malcolm embarrass her.  “After James and his limp dick, four inches AND stamina sounds like a real catch. Maybe I should ring him up. You’re right; I could do with a good fuck.”

Malcolm’s smugness faltered for a moment, his face souring into a frown briefly. “Alright, enough.” he said.

“Oh c’mon, don’t be _jealous_!” Nicola said, teasingly. “I bet he’s the best hate-fuck in Scotland.”

“Oi! Enough.” he said with a growl. “We’ve got work to do. Go make some fucking tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the nice reviews and kudos, you guys are fab.


	9. Dolosus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola learns that Victoria definitely has the makings of a politician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've very sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I usually try to update a few times a week because I know I write short chapters. This one happened to have been subject to a rewrite for a future plot point and tweaking character development which delayed posting. 
> 
> I also had intended to include a blog post guide to the political climate at play within the story but I've decided to hold off for now because it has kind of run away with me. I was giving myself a nerd-gasm writing ranty explanations about politics.

By Friday, a routine was well established. Nicola would wake up at 6:30 a.m., take her shower and get dressed, followed by making the coffee at 7:30 in anticipation of Malcolm and Victoria showing up anywhere between 7:45 and 8:30. While waiting for her comrades, Nicola would clean the flat, one small corner at a time. Unsurprisingly, Malcolm had never followed through with his promise to tidy up.

By 8:30 neither one had appeared so Nicola settled in on the sofa with her laptop. She clicked through blogs and checked her Google alerts, tracking anything pertaining to the by-election, the tories, or any mention of Victoria. A loony-left blogger called Victoria a ‘pro-business banshee,’ and not-so-cleverly came up with the nickname ‘Vulture Vicki.’ Perhaps Nicola’s favourite insult was a Twitter troll who summed up her candidate as a ‘public school cunt-punter,’ to which Nicola could comprehend the upper-class posh assessment but didn’t quite understand why someone would think Victoria punted cunts, but the imagery was amusing.

It was nearly 9:00 when the aforementioned Cunt Punter showed up, out of breath and panting. “I’m so sorry I’m late!” she announced, popping into the kitchen and grabbing a cup of coffee.

“It’s alright; I’m just in the midst of doing the media watch right now.” Nicola called out.

Victoria joined her in the living room, her well-tailored blazer and skirt a bit wrinkled. She was barely wearing any makeup besides her concealer and powder foundation. Normally she wore expertly drawn on winged eyeliner, mascara and blush, with just a touch of pink lip-gloss.  Today she looked aged, like someone had stripped away the varnish and discovered discoloured dry and cracked oak.

“Victoria,” Nicola said, taken aback by her appearance, “what on earth happened to you? I don’t want to be critical but do you want to pop into the loo and get fixed up?”

“Oh god, that bad?” she asked and pulled out a compact mirror from her purse. She scrutinized her face, snapped the compact shut and trotted off to the bathroom.

“So are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Nicola asked, raising her voice to be heard in the bathroom.

“I was out on a date last night and well, one thing led to another.” Victoria called out. “He said we wouldn’t fool around while I was campaigning but it was just the two of us—didn’t even keep our promise a week!”

Nicola cringed and rubbed her forehead, not sure how she should react. She wasn’t expecting girly-girlfriend sex talk before elevenses. Nicola could only reply with an awkward ‘uhhh’ while Victoria continued on with her candid confession.

“He hates talking politics at home,” she continued, stepping out of the bathroom with her face made up, “but of course I can’t help myself so he got the great idea of shutting me up by— God, I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t share all this. I’m just so comfortable with you; you know how it is to juggle politics and a personal life. It’s all relatively new to me.”

“Oh that’s…quite alright.” Nicola said, hesitating but now immeasurably curious. She’s talking about Malcolm, Nicola wondered, isn’t she? “When did you, uh…get together…?”

“It’s only been a couple months,” Victoria replied and sat down beside Nicola on the sofa. She dropped her voice and looked at Nicola with a guilty grin. “He’s still married, technically. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Nicola now desperately wished she wasn’t having this conversation, curiosity be damned. It was none of her concern who Malcolm was dating and she certainly didn’t want to give relationship advice to a women she had only met five days earlier. Not to mention her failed marriage was a testament to how disastrous her own personal relationships panned out while she was an MP. She should discourage Victoria; she should tell her straight out that dating while campaigning was a terrible idea.

“Ju-just be discreet. I assume he’s left his wife..?” Nicola said, letting it slip before she could catch herself. She felt an impulse to slap her forehead but resisted with a slight jerk of her hand. Since she had known Malcolm, Nicola knew he was married but assumed the relationship was unhappy or already on the way out. What poor woman could stand Malcolm Tucker stomping around in a tirade?

Well, his wife, and Victoria apparently.

_But he’s a lunatic, any sort of appeal he has is that ridiculous ‘dangerous’ persona. You’d have to be a damned fool to fall fo—_

Nicola’s thoughts were interrupted with Victoria’s earnest attempts to rationalize her relationship. “…They are technically still together and ‘working it out’— but separated, living apart.” Victoria said. “It’s just a matter of time. I think he’s waiting until the campaign is over so we can officially move in together.”

Christ that explains Malcolm’s apartment and where he’s been shacking up, Nicola thought.

“I’m really sorry Victoria,” Nicola said. “I wish I could give you better advice but I’m in the midst of divorcing my husband and my kids don’t even talk to me anymore... I’m probably the last person who should give you relationship advice.”

“Oh, oh yeah— I’m so sorry Nicola.” Victoria quickly said, waving her hands. “Change of topic!”

Nicola cleared her throat. “Right then,” she said. “I was going through our contact list today. We need to be calling our supporters and reminding them that the nomination meeting is scheduled for Tuesday.”

Victoria picked up her purse sitting on the floor and pulled out a note book. “You’ve reminded me,” Victoria said, and flipped the book open, “I thought we could have a ‘meet the candidate’ mixer at a local joint. Bring in the who’s who, mingle, have a few drinks… Pump them for donations…”

“That’s not a bad idea, we could have it after the nom—“

“I think we should have it the day before, on Monday night.” Victoria said, interrupting. “We’ll collect donations and show the executive that we’re ahead of the game. We need to lead the pack!”

“Well, maybe…” Nicola said, relenting. “We still need to pass it by Malcolm, though. Where is he anyway? Doesn’t he drive over here with you?”

“Well, only if he happens to stay over after a late night. Usually he goes home.”

“Oh, right. Right, of course.” Nicola said, stammering and cheeks slightly reddening.

“What’s with that?” Victoria asked, leaning in and raising an eyebrow.

“No, nothing!” Nicola said, trying to evade suspicion. 

“Like I said, sometimes he stays over if it’s late.” Victoria said. “But while you’re occupying his flat, he goes home to his _mummy_.”

“His…mum…?”

Victoria gave a snicker and nodded. “Yes, his mother- bless her soul- is still alive. Maybe he’ll introduce you.”

“Oh god, what sort of succubus birthed Malcolm Tucker?”

“The sort of demon that Satan himself wouldn’t dare fuck with unless he was willing to bend over and take it up the arse.” Malcolm called out from the hallway. He closed the entrance door and hung up his coat before strolling into the living room. “What are you two cunts doing talking about my mam?”

“Oh Jesus.” Nicola moaned and rubbed her forehead. “Sorry Malcolm, it’s just hard to imagine you were birthed in the normal fashion. I thought you had to be summoned with the blood of virgins and channelling the souls of dead babies.”

“I like that.” Malcolm replied. “Spread that rumour around.”

“How is Isobel?” Victoria asked. She stood up and walked around the coffee table. She leaned over and gave Malcolm a kiss on the cheek before rounding the corner to the kitchen.

“She’s as content as Stephen Fry in a bathhouse.” he answered and moved to take up Victoria’s spot on the sofa next to Nicola. “Get me a coffee, Vic.”

“What do you think about hold a fundraiser pub night on Monday, Malcolm?” Nicola asked.

“Jesus-Fucking-No.” he said. “Do you want to start a fucking mutiny with the nutters before we even secure the nomination? Are you so fucking retarded, Nicola?”

Victoria appeared from the kitchen with Malcolm’s coffee; she handed it over and sat in the armchair. “It’s actually my idea.” Victoria said, snickering as Malcolm rolled his eyes with an exasperate sigh. “We need to raise some capital and I happen to have friends who love handing over money, especially after a few drinks.”

“You’re both fucking daft. An abso-fucking-lutely terrible idea.”

“Well, I don’t think so.” Victoria said with her haughty sternness. “ _My_ supporters are business people who expect to be wooed and have to be made to feel like they are investing in something with a promise of return. We need to make this be as much about _them_ as it is about us if we expect any large cheques to come our way.”

“Wait now,” Nicola said, “you didn’t say that to me. You said it was to show the executive that we’re an organized campaign.”

Victoria huffed and shot Nicola a steely look. “Obviously that too,” she said. “But my friends are expecting a bit of deference for their support. We stand to collect quite a bit for our coffers if we just make a few people happy!”

Nicola opened her mouth to protest until Malcolm raised his hand to her face and turned to Victoria with a grim frown. “Alright, set it up but we’re inviting the executive and Harris’ gang as well. We’re not going to be playing alliances with just your circle-jerking public school wankers behind the backs of the party members a day before nominations.”

"Good," Victoria said and suddenly stood up. "Nicola, you don't mind calling around, do you? I've got errands to run."

Victoria snatched up her purse and jacket. Nicola, stunned for a moment, tried to mount a protest. "W-wait! I already have the email blast to write up and the small business tax policy to research. Now I have to contact all these people too?"

"I have meetings and important people to see," Victoria said icily. She thrusted a piece of paper with the details for the event towards Nicola. "You're the 'campaign manager' so manage the campaign while I'm away."

Nicola looked pleadingly at Malcolm who ignored her and checked his mobile. He clearly didn't see a problem with dumping the task of contacting several dozen members onto her if that is what Victoria wanted. Perhaps this wasn't so much a partnership of mutual advantage than indentured servitude. She sighed and waved her hand to shoo Victoria away. “Fine. Fine, it’s all fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, according to the tie-in book 'The Missing DoSAC Files' in which Malcolm sends an email to his mother, the address goes to an 'Isobel Tucker' so I guess his ancient old mum knows how to work a computer.


	10. Esprit de Corps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola and Malcolm find the middle ground of camaraderie as allies, despite ideological differences.

The morning passed with barely ten words between them. Nicola was in the foulest of moods, and Malcolm was absolutely determined to ignore her pouting and long drawn out sighs. They worked in silence, side-by-side on the sofa with laptops out, clicking and tapping. 

Nicola had hoped after Victoria’s abrupt departure, and in her opinion, juvenile attempts at manipulations, Malcolm would say something to explain or excuse Victoria’s sudden mood shift. But Malcolm didn’t seem too miffed that Victoria wanted to court her business investor friends. 

So much for his cowboy speech about loyalty and honour, Nicola thought bitterly. Apparently his principals did not apply to Victoria Innis. 

Nicola huffed loudly and ran her hands through her hair. She stared at her screen, the words blurring together, her eyes not registering anything she had written about the stupid tax policy. 

“Would ya shut your trap,” Malcolm said, turning his attention to Nicola, “fucking mouth-breather…”

Nicola snapped her laptop shut and turned to face Malcolm. She set her face in the best disappointed motherly glare she could muster, puffed out her cheeks and exhaled louder and longer. Malcolm held her stare, his eyebrows wrinkling into a scowl. 

“What—“he said, blowing air between his teeth. “What is with that fucking face?”

Nicola rolled her eyes in bewilderment. “Oh c’mon!” she shouted, balling her fists. “What the fuck was all that about!” 

“Nicola—“

“No!” she said as she pounded her fist on the sofa cushion to little dramatic effect. “No Malcolm, just hear me out.” she continued, steadying her voice. “I agreed to help you because I thought we were going to do politics differently. What happened to that?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—“

“You were the one who told me my problem was I had no god damn integrity,” she said, jabbing him in the arm with a finger, “or was that all utter shit?”

“Jesus Christ,” Malcolm said, swatting her hand away and pushed off the sofa, walking towards the window, “she’s asking her personal business partners for contributions. She’s not blowing Sir-fucking-Richard Branson for a donation, yeah?”

Nicola followed him. “Look, I get you two have a relationsh—“

“Is this a fucking woman jealousy thing?”

Nicola jerked her head up, catching Malcolm’s eye. She felt the faintest blush but recovered quickly, composing her face into a stern frown. “Oh don’t even— don’t flatter yourself.” she said. “I’m being serious.”

“Do you have a cheque book ready to write out a couple hundred pounds because otherwise, don’t be fucking dense.” Malcolm said. “You might have been shite as an MP but even you know it takes cash to get elected.” 

“Alright, yeah,” she replied, “but shouldn’t we be trying to do this as a grassroots effort?”

“Nicola, as admirable as it is that you’ve embraced a new philosophy,” he said, arching his eyebrow, “and trust me; I never thought I’d see the day you’d be the gold standard of politics— our only goal is to win this one election.” 

He walked away from the window and rounded the corner of the corridor towards the kitchen. Nicola crossed her arms and leaned against the windowsill. “You can’t have this both ways, Malcolm.” she called out after him. 

Malcolm didn’t respond. 

Sometime later he entered the living room again with two cups of tea. He handed one to Nicola and then sat back down at his laptop. Nicola held her mug between her two hands, warming them. She glanced out the window; the world was grey even against the backdrop of autumn leaves and brick houses. She reluctantly returned to the sofa and sat down next to Malcolm, sinking back into the cushions. 

Nicola looked up at the ceiling, gave a long sigh and closed her eyes. “…Victoria called you an idealist the other day.” 

“I find that bloody hard to believe.” Malcolm said.

“Well, she said you were a ‘pragmatist who dreams of an idealistic world.’” Nicola replied and turned to look at him. “Why not call a spade a spade?” 

“Because I'm not a fucking tool, ya tool.” he said. "Tucker's law, to just paraphrase: something-something cunts fuck it all up and you're a cunt to not expect it so fuck off and deal with it—Hold yourself to a higher standard, expect everyone else to fuck you over.

Nicola groaned and shook her head. "Right. So a pessimist, really." 

She opened her laptop again, setting it on her knee. On her screen, tax policy proposal was still sitting there, waiting for her to finish citing studies and experts. She gave a defeated sigh and placed her hands back on the keys but no words came to her.

“Y'know, when I was first elected...” she said, giving pause, expecting an interjection, “I felt like I could have taken on the world. Then I realized there was no power as a backbencher, it was all ‘tow the party line’ and ‘strength in unity’ bullshit. I remember later thinking; when I accepted the cabinet position, I could bring about change in DoSAC. I had so many big dreams.”

She again waited for Malcolm to cut her off but to her surprise he simply turned towards her and listened. She cleared her throat and continued, “I know you’ve been in politics far longer than I have— god knows you’ve heard it all— but it feels like everything I did in cabinet and as leader was so god damn futile. Does anyone ever actually do any good?”

Malcolm gave a smirk and rubbed the scruff on his chin. “To be frank and honest with you,” he said, “no.”

Nicola ran her tongue over her teeth, waiting for Malcolm to continue. She raised her eyebrows, giving him a look as if to urge an elaboration. He chuckled and ran his fingers around his mouth, smoothing his wrinkles before following up on his assertion, “You know as well as I do that the vast majority of politicians are self-serving wanks.” he said. 

“So why do you even try?”

Malcolm barked a laugh that fell into a deep sigh. “I’m fucking institutionalized at this point. What else could a jaded cunt like me do? I'll be the bastard who commits fucking harakiri on the steps of Number Ten just to fuck up the PM's morning."

“Oh c’mon,” Nicola said, rolling her eyes, “really, why haven’t you just walked away?”

Malcolm scratched his cheek. “Because,” he said, giving a sniff, “incremental progress is better than no progress. Holding back the tide of shite is too important to leave it to the fucking mongs in Westminster.” 

“Our noble work is never done.” Nicola leaned over to bump his shoulder with hers. Malcolm forced a grumpy scowl and pushed Nicola back with his elbow. 

“Right, so do as you’re told,” he said, “you got some cunty businessmen to ring up, yeah?”

“Fine, yeah.” she said and reached for her phone on the coffee table.


	11. Speak Uneasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Candidate meet-and-greet aren't without their hiccups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter to make up for the last one being quite short.

Nicola paced the pavement; she steadied her messenger bag on one shoulder and checked the time on her mobile. She looked up and down the street trying to make out the silhouettes of pedestrians, hoping Victoria was among the early evening crowd. She mashed her fingers on her Blackberry’s buttons with gloved fingers and put it up to her ear.

“Are you calling me?”

Nicola turned around and dropped her hand to her hip with an exaggerated sigh. “I just dialled.” she said, ending the call and shoving her mobile into her coat pocket.

“Sorry,” Victoria said, “I couldn’t find parking.”

“Well c’mon; we’re going to be late to your own meet-and-greet.”

The two women walked a block and then turned the corner down a lit alley way with a sign announcing the entrance to a gastropub called _The Blind Pig._ The pub was dimly lit and very posh with darwood trim, art-deco design and lux leather upholstery; it had the feel of an exclusive 1920's bar. Inside, Victoria was immediately greeted by two well-dressed men, they exchanged handshakes and cheek kisses. 

Victoria flourished a hand to Nicola. “May I introduce my Campaign Manager, Nicola Murray.”

 “I’m John Fitzpatrick,” the taller man of the two said, “I was Vicki’s Chief Financial Officer at her tech firm.”

“Jacob McMaster,” said the other man, who was considerably older.

“Pleasure.” Nicola said and in turn grasped each man’s hand. She smiled at Jacob, “Did you work with Victoria as well?”

“No, no,” he said, “I was business partners with her grand-father. I’ve been retired for ages.”

“You’re never _really_ retired when you’re a businessman, Jake.” Victoria said and gave a wink.

“Here Victoria,” Nicola said and held out her hand, “give me your coat.”

Victoria dropped her coat from her shoulders. She was wearing a tight, knee-length and backless black dress with a long gold chain around her neck, clearly a believer in dressing to impress. Victoria gave a coy grin as she handed her effects to Nicola.

“Oh there’s Harold and Lewis!” she said and led her two companions towards a gathering at the back of the pub.

Nicola looked around for a place to stash her belongings. She found a secluded booth, folded their coats neatly and opened her messenger bag. Malcolm had prepped Nicola with talking points and even wrote out a small speech for Victoria to read to her supporters. Tucked between the papers was an envelope, inside, Nicola found a photograph. Malcolm had taken the liberty to write in the names of a few people above their heads.

In the middle, Nicola recognized, was Andy McCullough, looking considerably younger and healthier than when she last saw him while in office before his death. Behind him was a thin man with a long face and wispy blond hair, giving him the appearance of missing eyebrows. Above his head Malcolm had penned in ‘Graham Harris.’  To McCullough’s left was middle-aged balding man. Above his head: ‘Bill Wallace- Vice-Pres.’ And to the right, an older gentleman sporting a stern face with droopy jowls, Malcolm had circled his head in red and wrote out in angry letters: ‘FRANK ROONEY- EXEC PRESIDENT.’

Nicola opened the mouth of the envelope to insert the photo, instead finding a small folded piece of paper at the bottom. She unfolded it and found Malcolm’s messy handwriting scrawled out:

**Good fuckin luck, ya eejit**

**M**

Nicola smiled and rolled her eyes, slipping the note inside her blazer’s inner pocket. She put away the photograph and scooted out of the booth to join the gathering centered on Victoria near the bar. She scanned the two dozen or so people in the group and spotted three known faces on the outskirts. Graham Harris was standing nearest to the group, half concentrating on the conversation taking place between Victoria and her acquaintances and periodically turning to his two cohorts, Frank Rooney and Bill Wallace. The constituency president and the vice-president were far less interested in keeping up appearances. The two men were sitting on stools with their backs to the bar, chatting amongst themselves, ignoring most of the conversation happening in their midst.

Nicola approached the bar next to Wallace and leaned over to order a drink from the bartender. He handed her a gin and tonic, she took a slip as she turned to face her targets.

“Having a good evening, gentlemen?”

Wallace eyed her quickly and gave a sardonic laugh. “The best.” he said, raising his glass before turning his back on Nicola.

She sidestepped away from the bar and in front of the three men, forcing her way into the middle of their conversation. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” she said, “I’m Nicola Murray, Victoria’s Camp—“

“We know quite well who you are.” Wallace said. “And we don’t give two shites.”

“And you can tell that fuckmonger, Malcolm Tucker, to pound sand, too.” Rooney added.

“He sends his regards to you as well.” Nicola said, holding up two fingers to Rooney.

“What’s it going to take for your little outsiders’ gang to get the message?” Rooney said. “Your lot’s not welcome here.”

“Our lot?” Nicola said, scoffing. “You mean the two people who also happen to be from Glasgow?”

“They’re no more from Glasgow than you are.” Harris added, sounding like a schoolboy tattling. “We’re the executive. We’re the ones who’ve done all the work and now you all just show up and think you can run things your way?”

“I’m sorry,” Nicola said, crossing her arms, “I was under the impression that we’re all working within a democracy. I don’t remember ‘squatter’s rights’ applying to constituencies.”

“Oh bollocks that.” Rooney said. “We worked with Andy for the past ten years. It’s our legacy, not yours.” Beside him, Harris nodded slowly like a dog following a piece of meat in front of his eyes. Malcolm wasn’t far off that the man was frankly quite simple.

“We’ll see if that’s true tomorrow.” Nicola said, taking a sip of her drink. “…Speaking of which, have you noticed an increase in memberships lately?”

“So you have a couple friends sign up,” Wallace countered, “doesn’t mean fuck all.”

“Well then it’s a good thing that I’ve been calling the membership list and getting a lot of keen supporters.”

“Utter bullshit.” Rooney growled.

Nicola laughed. “I don’t think people are as fond of Andy McCullough and you bunch of cronies as you think.” she said. “I was in office with Andy and after the backlash with the Transport Ministry scandal, no one wanted to be seen with a disgraced Minister.”

“Yeah, you being a train wreck party leader, I imagine you know what it’s like to be ostracized for being an absolute cock-up?” Rooney said. Wallace and Harris roared with laughter.

Nicola closed her eyes a moment, blowing air through her nose, trying to keep an unflappable face. She glanced around, Victoria and her growing posse were gathered around a tall bar table, none unconcerned with Nicola and the Executive trading jabs.

“I suppose it’s easy to be well-liked when you let all your friends and supporters have their hands in the cookie jar.” Nicola countered, raising her glass to the trio before turning to leave. “Gentlemen.”

* * *

 

Nicola joined the dozen or so supporters meandering around Victoria, talking amongst themselves. She drifted towards Jacob McMaster who was listening to John Fitzpatrick and Victoria talk about their former company.

“There’s the boss now, Victoria.” Jacob said, moving aside to let Nicola join the circle.

Victoria arched an eyebrow. “Met the Executive, did you?”

“Oh yeah,” Nicola said, “lovely bunch of wanker.”

“Sore losers in their death throes.” John said, giving Nicola a sympathetic smile.

“Well, I hate to interrupt the gathering, Victoria,” Nicola said, “but I had a few words prepared for you to address your supporters.”

“Oh never mind that, love.” Jacob said, waiving off Nicola. “You don’t have to work this crowd for donations. We know exactly why Vicki brought us out to the pub.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his chequebook and started scribbling. “What did I say? Five hundred pounds, Vicki?”

“Better make it eight, Jacob.” Victoria replied, giving her friend a wink. “Give the cheque to Nicola— she’ll take care of it.”

“Right then.” he said and handed over the eight hundred pound cheque.

Nicola gave a smile and a small nod. “Thank you, Jacob. That’s very generous of you.”

“I for one,” John said, giving a chuckle, “would like to hear your speech. I don’t just hand over large sums of money just because two lovely ladies are showing me a good time.”

“That’s exactly what you do, John.” Jacob said, nudging his friend. “At least that’s what you do when the missus isn’t around.”

“Oh don’t be getting me into trouble!” John replied. “Speaking of the missus, I’m afraid this is the end of the night for me. She’s not going to like me turning up pissed if I stay any longer.”

John exchanged cheek kisses with Victoria and shook Jacob’s hand. Turning to Nicola, he shook her hand then leaned in to kiss her cheek before pulling out his own cheque from his pocket. He handed it to Nicola. “It was lovely to meet you. Best wishes on the campaign. I’m looking forward to having a powerful friend in office to call on!” he said with a chuckle.

Nicola inspected the cheque, £1,500 made out to the campaign. On the note line John had written: ‘For future investments.’

“Oh!” Victoria waved at a man entering the pub. “Excuse me a moment.” she said before dashing off to meet the newcomer with a warm hug. The pair huddled together and walked off to the back of the pub into a private booth.

“Ah, there she goes.” Jacob said. “I best be off too.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Nicola said, “thank you again for your donation and support. We’ll see you tomorrow at the nomination?”

“Oh yes,” he said and fixed his coat, wrapping his neck in a scarf, “wouldn’t miss it.”

Nicola glanced around; most of the supporters had splintered off. Those who were left were sitting in twos and threes, enjoying a drink among friends. It was too late to gather them for speeches. She looked back to the bar, the Executive trio was gone and no friendly familiar faces were to be found.

Feeling suddenly quite awkward standing alone, Nicola approached the bar and rapped her knuckles on the wood to signal for another drink. It was a strange feeling to be at a political event without at least two assistants following her around. An MP was to never be left unaccompanied; she would have died if Ollie and Glenn had abandoned her, unsupervised. There was a sense of security in numbers, one felt like the most popular person in the room with a posse. She took a large gulp of her gin and tonic, and pulled her notebook from her inside blazer pocket.

From across the bar a man called out: “Oi!” Nicola lifted her head.

Jaime MacDonald.

The corners of her mouth dropped into a grimace. She signalled with a nod that she had seen him and quickly buried her face into her notebook and tried desperately to look busy.

He appeared at her side, taking up the stool next to her, leaning with his elbow on the bar. Nicola’s eyes flickered up; Jamie kept his contemptible smile plastered to his face as if he were privy to an inside joke.

“Evening.” Nicola muttered as she raised her glass to her lips.

“So this is where the mental moppet brigade hangs out with all their upper class cunty friends.” Jaime said with a hint of sadistic glee.

“Congratulations,” Nicola said, rolling her eyes, “you found our super-secret meeting. Is this your regular hangout or are you skulking around for something else?”

He took a large gulp of his lager, giving pause. “Research.”

“Of course—“she said, “If you’ll excuse me.” Nicola stood up from her seat and collected her drink and notebook.

She made a beeline from the bar to the far corner and scooted into her booth where she stashed her bag and coat. Jaime followed suit. Nicola did a double take as he plopped down on the opposite bench.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Are you fucking deaf?” he asked. “I said I was doing research.”

“For what, exactly?”

“What in Christ’s name do you think?” Jaime said, waving his hands around.

“A story?” Nicola guessed, her brain feeling slightly fuzzy. “Are you _actually_ going to write up a story about Victoria?”

“There we are; the fucking lights are on, ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “Yeah, assuming she gets the nomination— so give me a quote.”

“Uhh…”

“C’mon ya numpty,” he said, “Or I’ll just fill in what I want— Victoria Innis, 69-year-old slag secured the nomination for New Labour. Her Campaign Manager, Nicola ‘Aborted Foetus’ Murray had this to say—“

“Alright, calm down.” Nicola said, knocking back a large swig of her cocktail, finishing it off. She took a moment to compose herself from the rush of liquor. “How about: ‘We are pleased to have secured the nomination for Glasgow East and look forward to continuing the Labour Party legacy for our constituency to keep fighting for working-class fam—’”

“Jumping the gun, eh Nicola?” Victoria said,  appearing at her side.

“Oh, Victoria!” she said,  slowly turning away to look at Jaime and then slowly back to Victoria, “He’s getting quotes for if; or rather, when you get nominated.”

Victoria frowned, her sights raking over Jaime. “I see…” she said coolly. “Would you mind passing my coat? I’m heading off.”

“Darling, come on, the taxi’s waiting.” called out a man. The newcomer approached Victoria and tugged her hand. He was broad-shouldered, well dressed and quite handsome.

Jaime’s features slipped into a predatory smile for a brief moment before he composed himself. He seemed to recognize the man at Victoria’s side as he gave him a slight nod before taking a drink. Victoria seemed to shrink, her face frozen like a child trying her damndest to hide her guilt. Nicola looked back and forth between the two parties, her brain trying to connect what that wolfish look passing through Jaime’s eyes could possibly mean.

Nicola handed the coat and exchanged goodbyes.

She waited for Jaime to make mention of what had just transpired but he remained tight-lipped. “What was that?” she finally asked.

Jaime lips twisted into a gleeful smile. “You have a problem,” he said and then waved down the bartender, “—she’ll have another gin and tonic.”

Jaime waited for the bartender to drop off the order and leave before leaning in across the table. “Your miss-candidate is shagging the multi-millionaire manager of Genco Construction, the biggest non-union building company in Glasgow,” he said, “who’s also married to a local councillor.”

Nicola paled. She took up her glass, knocked back the cocktail, draining the ever last drop, and slammed it down on the table. “No,” she said, trying to compose herself, “that wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Really?” Jaime said, “That slag wasn’t your candidate leaving with a married man?”

“Mind your own fucking business, Jaime.” Malcolm Tucker stood at the mouth of the booth, arms crossed and beastly baring his teeth.

“Late to the party, Malc.”

“It’s not a party till I’ve arrived.” he said, maintaining his scowl. He turned to Nicola. “Get up. We’re going.”

“Alright, yeah.” she said, gathering her bag and coat. She scooted across the bench and slipped past Malcolm.

“So what shall I print for Wednesday’s edition?” Jaime said, taunting. “’New Labour Candidate: Homewrecker’ or ‘Opportunistic Cunt Wins Nomination.’”

“Yeah, go ahead and write that, maybe we can make it a two-part series.” Malcolm said, leaning in on Jaime. “Thursday edition can read: ‘Glasgow Sun Editor Brutally Raped and Eviscerated— Suspect at Large.’”

Jaime pushed out of the booth, forcing Malcolm to take a step back. Malcolm straightened his back, using his full height for effect against Jaime. It looked to Nicola like a wolf staring down a rabid little badger.

The two men glared at each other, the energy mounting, both ready to exchange blows if so provoked. Nicola stepped beside them and pushed Malcolm’s chest, trying to force him to back down. “Enough with the fucking Glaswegian mating ritual. Both of you.” she said. “Malcolm, let’s go.”

“That’s right,” Jaime said, as Malcolm heeded to Nicola and turned away, “fuck off, both of ya.” 


	12. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sore and painful or soft and gentle

Malcolm stormed out of the pub, taking long strides past a group of patrons bumming around the entrance smoking cigarettes. Nicola hurried after him, trying to match his pace like a lame pony trotting alongside. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile and mashed the buttons furiously. He halted suddenly, Nicola nearly smashing into him. He feigned throwing his mobile against a brick wall, yelling profanities echoing down the skip.

 “For FUCK’S sake!” he yelled, rounding on Nicola. “Why the FUCK weren’t you answering your phone?!”

“I-I—“she stammered and pulled out her own phone. Six missed calls, five progressively obscene texts. “I was busy running interference on the Executive and then Jaime-Fucking-MacDonald.”

“Well Victoria hasn’t been answering her god damn phone either,” he said, a measure calmer, “and now she’s gone off with that fucking wanker, Alistair Elliott.”

“Wait,” Nicola said, “you know who she left with?”

“Of course I do.” Malcolm started walking, forcing Nicola to hurry after him.

“How—why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because I thought she and I had come to an understanding about not shagging married fucking men who also have contracts with the FUCKING GOVERNMENT.” Malcolm said, ramping back up to shouting. “FUCK!”

 

“Alright,” Nicola said, “keep your voice down. Let’s get to the flat and figure out what to do there.”

* * *

 

Nicola pressed redial on her phone for the tenth time, letting it ring to voicemail then hanging up when the automated voice informed her that the inbox was indeed still full. It was half past eleven and still no word from Victoria.

Malcolm came round to the sofa with two glasses and his bottle of Talisker whisky. “Here.” he said, pouring a generous amount in each glass.

“I’ve had three gin and tonics tonight, I can’t possibly drink anything else.” she said, waving her hand at the offering.

“Take the whisky.” he said. “It’s almost empty, might as well finish it off.”

Nicola knocked her glass against Malcolm’s. “Cheers.”

Malcolm flopped down on the sofa next to Nicola. “She still not answering?”

“No.” Nicola took a sip of whisky. “Why don’t we go hunt her down at her place?”

“She’ll be elsewhere,” he answered, “especially since Jaime recognized Elliott. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to shack up where we could find her.”

“So just to be clear, you knew she was involved with that man?” Nicola pulled the hem of her dress and tucked her legs underneath her, sitting on the sofa.

“She’s been fucking about with him for ages.” Malcolm said, splashing his drink around in his glass before taking a swig. “I told her to drop that cunt months ago.”

“Heh.” Nicola chuckled to herself.

Malcolm frowned, still checking his mobile. “What?”

Nicola covered her mouth, hiding a smile. She waved a hand at Malcolm. “No,” she said, “nothing.”

“What in the name of Beelzebub’s arsehole are you laughing at?”

“I just realized I made a mistake.” she said, cheeks slightly reddening. “I thought— well I really don’t know _why_ I thought this— I thought you were shagging her.” Nicola pulled a sheepish face and took up her glass to her lips and drank, avoiding making any eye contact with Malcolm.

Despite her best efforts, Nicola could see from the corner of her eye that Malcolm’s face turned stony, his mouth pulled tight. He cleared his throat. “Nicola,” he said, giving a slight pause “she’s my kin.”

Nicola forced herself to swallow the gulp of whisky in her mouth, avoiding a spit-take all over the coffee table. She coughed violently, failing to regain any composure. “Wh-what?” she  said, finally choking out her words. “Related how?”

“She’s my cousin.” he said, matter-of-factly. “Second cousins.”

“Well Christ, “she said. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“What bloody difference does it make if we’re fucking related?” he said, draining his glass then reached for the bottle.

Nicola shook her head, baffled. “Well for starters,” she said, “kind of explains why you give her a fucking pass.”

Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up, he turned and looked at Nicola squarely in the face. “Excuse-fucking-you?”

“Malcolm,” Nicola said, “anyone else fucking about like this, you’d rip them a new arsehole. You bollocked me once for getting caught on camera outside the BBC taking a drag off Ollie’s fag after an interview.”

“No—“he said, “I bollocked you for bombing the interview with Nick Robinson, the photo-op was just the extra piss in my cornflakes that day.”

“Well I still think you need to pull on the reigns here.”

“I’m not taking fucking advice from you,” he said, “you, the one who let her mosey off during a candidate meet-and-greet to probably suck off that shit-stain weasel in the backroom. Which, thank you for the fucking reminder, I should be shouting at you for cocking up.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Nicola said, well aware of how pathetic trying to plead innocent would sound to Malcolm. “I’m one person trying to block a bunch of hateful wankers, entertain Victoria’s mates, AND THEN deal with Jaime to top it off.”

“Oh please—“

 “—when I was an MP I had at least two staffers with me at all times.”

“That’s because no one could trust you wouldn’t shit the bed at any given moment.”

“I did actually fucking _try_ to keep control of it!” she said, imploring empathy. “And it would help if you weren’t so revved up and high strung all the time, you know.” 

Malcolm bared his teeth, ramping up for a shout. Nicola grimaced and flopped her arms on the sofa, defeated. She was reluctant to take the brunt of the anger, but willing to take ownership for the ruined night just to appease the beast. Instead of a shouting match, Malcolm gave a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. The energy ebb out of him, the fatigue pressing down on his shoulders; he sunk lower into the sofa cushions. His hand felt around under pillows, producing a remote, he turned on the television to BBC News.

“I’m just _tired_ , Nicola.” he said softly.

“I know.” she said and followed suit, slouching into the cushions.

* * *

 

Far off, a voice called her name. Nicola felt a tightness around her forearm, stirring her awake. She burrowed her face into her pillow, trying to hold on to sleep. She was comfortable here.

“C’mon, Nicola,” the voice urged her, “go to bed.”

She slowly opened her eyes, still in the living room on the sofa. She looked down; Malcolm’s hand was holding her arm. Her sense of orientation coming to her, she realized she was napping with her head on his shoulder. She had leaned in on him in her sleep and he had wrapped his arm around her.

She yawned and rubbed her face. “Sorry, Malcolm. Didn’t mean to use you as a pillow.” she said quietly, her voice still full of sleep.

“S’fine.” he said, rolling his head and stretching his neck. “I fell asleep listening to Paxman.”

He pushed off the sofa and took Nicola’s hand, pulling her up with him. He steered her to the bedroom with one hand on the small of her back, helping a drowsy Nicola navigate the corridor without running into any obstacles. She slipped her arm around his neck to steady herself.

Malcolm sat Nicola on the bed, both her arms locked around his neck as she hunched over pressing her head into his chest. He tried to duck under her arms but she clung onto his jumper. “Help me with my blazer.” she muttered.

“Do the buttons, then.”

She fumbled her fingers on the buttons and holes then held out her arms for Malcolm to pull the blazer off one arm at a time. She threw herself backwards, lying on the bed, over the sheets and comforter.

“You wore that dress.” Malcolm said, recalling the red dress with the keyhole cut-out. He trailed his eyes over the hint of skin.

Nicola cracked an eye open. “I did,” she said, consciously tugging at the neckline.  “I told you I would.” Nicola flipped over on her belly and crawled her way up the bed and kicked her way under the covers.

Malcolm paused, rubbing his mouth, trying to hold back an amused smile. “Goodnight, Nicola.” he said, turning towards the door.

“Oh just stay.” she said, patting the extra pillow beside her. “Stay on that side.”

Malcolm cleared his throat and glanced back and forth from the door to Nicola. Without a word, he walked to his armoire, pulled out a change of clothes and walked out. Nicola heard the bathroom door close and moments later Malcolm returned. He had changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms, opting to go to bed shirtless. He turned off the light, closed the door partway then ghosted to the left side of the bed and climbed under the blankets.

“You have my side of the bed.”

“I’m the guest.”

Malcolm didn’t respond, rolling over on his side, his back to Nicola. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds to fall asleep. Nicola shifted and twisted around, rolling closer to him. With the lightest touch, he felt her press her forehead to his bareback. “Goodnight, Malcolm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words and encouragement :)


	13. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardest thing to do is to wear your heart on your sleeve.

_Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt_

The bed shifted and covers tossed around.

The morning air was cold and uninviting. Nicola shielded her eyes from the dull autumn morning rays streaming in from the window. She groped around and pulled the comforter above her head, insulating herself.

_Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzz—_

“Where the fuck have you—”

Nicola heard Malcolm exit the bedroom and shut the door behind him. She could get up and join him but it was far too early to crawl out of a warm bed just to witness Malcolm having a shouting match over the phone with, who she assumed was, Victoria.  

She could hear Malcolm yell a string of profanities from the living room, clearly unconcerned with his neighbours being disturbed so early. Although, living next to Malcolm probably meant they were accustomed to hearing shouting at all hours. If anyone complained, Nicola imagined, they probably brought on the full wrath of Malcolm Tucker and learnt it was better to just stay out of his way.

* * *

 

Nicola awoke again to the sound of the bedroom door opening and Malcolm’s heavy footsteps leading him to her side of the bed. She felt him pat down the comforter, grab her shoulder and shake her lightly.  Nicola pulled the blankets down from her head and cracked an eye open; looking up at Malcolm standing beside her.

“I’m awake.” she said with a cracked voice.

Malcolm held out a mug. “Coffee.”

Nicola sat up in bed and stretched her arms. She spied herself in the mirror hanging on the bureau hanging on the opposite wall, she had slept in her dress all night, her hair was dishevelled and her mascara was smudged around her eyes. She hoped Malcolm wouldn’t comment on her Alice Cooper-esque appearance.

She took the coffee mug and sipped it; he walked around to his side of the bed. He was still in his pyjama bottoms but he had slipped on a comfy and dashing blue cable knit jumper. Malcolm propped up his pillows before sitting down and leaning against his headboard. He took a sip of his coffee and then placed the mug on the night stand.

“So,” he said, pausing dramatically, “that’s what your husband got to wake up to every morning.”

Nicola’s eyes shot wide and she gave him an incredulous look before punching him in the arm a bit too forcefully. “I can fix _my_ face,” she said, “you, however, always look like you’re some spastic stroke victim.”

Malcolm dropped his eyebrows into a stern glare but the expression melted away quickly into a wolfish grin. “Funny girl.”

She nudged him in the arm and pursed her lips to stop herself from smiling too wide. “Is this us being mates now?”

“Why would I ever be fucking mates with you?” he said, his grin transforming into a genuine smile.

“Oh shut up.” Nicola said and pulled a face, wrinkling up her nose at him. She paused a moment, recalling having been woken up much earlier from a phone call and then the shouting. “Did you… talk to Victoria?”

“Aye.”

“And?”

“And what?” Malcolm said, scratching his chin.

“You were shouting at her, yeah?” Nicola said. “I heard you— what came of all that?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Don’t you even try to stonewall me, Malcolm.”

“Look,” he replied, “she didn’t go home with Alistair Elliott, alright?”

“We both know that’s not true—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Malcolm—“

“Drop it, Nicola.”

Nicola sniffed loudly, a little put out by Malcolm’s terseness. He could be so fickle, one moment they were joking, the next he was sullen and cross. She folded her arms over her chest, purposely pouting. She held the moment, dragging out the silence, hoping Malcolm’s resolve would break first, unlikely as that may be.

Finally, she clicked her tongue. “I can’t be working for you and not—“

“Would you fucking drop it?” Malcolm growled.

Nicola matched his glowering; she would not accept his moody brooding for the whole day. She reached behind her back and pulled out one of her pillow and swung it wildly at Malcolm’s head. He raised his arm to block it but still took the brunt of it to the head.

“Oi!” He grabbed at the pillow, Nicola tried to pull it back and ready another swing.

“Just—“she huffed, “Tell. Me.”

Malcolm pinned her wrists down in her lap with one hand and threw the pillow off the bed, far away from her reach. “Nicola, for Christ’s sake, drop it,” he said, looking her straight in the eyes, adding: “I’m not the one calling the shots here.”

“What do you mean?”

Malcolm let her hands go and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed, unable to find his words, possibly for the first time in his life.

“Malcolm,” she said, “just spit it out; mime it or draw me a diagram, becauseI'm not a fucking mind-reader.”

“Christ,” Malcolm said, giving an agonized groan, “I don’t have the fucking luxury to make any demands of Victoria— it clearly hasn’t occurred to you that she’s the one doing me a massive fucking favour.”

Nicola raised her eyebrows, still befuddled. Malcolm rolled his eyes, clearly vexed. “She hired me to run her campaign knowing full well that I’m a fucking criminal— my career is deader than Schrodinger’s cat tossed in a trash compactor.”

That look of feral and wild desperation Nicola first saw when he first appeared on for doorstep flashed in his eyes. “There is nothing left for me,” he said, “—but if I can just get her fucking elected—“

“So, you are at her mercy—” Nicola said, the realization dawning on her. “You… were never in control.”

“It’s like being fucking neutered.” Malcolm groaned like an animal in a snare, and Nicola truly believed he just might have been clipped. “A fucking bloody mess— you get a front row seat to watch me self-fucking-immolate.”

Malcolm laughed sardonically, resting his head against his headboard.  Nicola stared off into the mirror hanging on the opposite wall and watched him. She couldn’t help but remark the dark circles around his eyes, the lines creasing his features, the shadows giving his cheeks a gaunt appearance, even from the distance of his reflection he looked ashen. This was a tired man, a defeated man.

Had it been anyone else, Nicola would be wrapping her arms around their shoulders but this was Malcolm Tucker. He’d scoff at her bleeding heart. Theirs wasn’t a relationship based on friendship; and she doubted her sympathy would bring him solace. But despite their normal animosity, they had their share of candid, almost tender moments; he did lay his confession bare to her.

It struck her then that she was free to leave any time, he brought this upon himself; yet she couldn’t stand to see him suffer alone. She had no obligation to stay, save for some misguided sense of loyalty to Malcolm. And she knew; against her better judgement, if he asked her to stay she would stay, for his sake.

“Can I ask you a serious question, Malcolm?” she said and knitted her fingers together in her lap like she was quietly praying. “Do you regret asking me to stay when I wanted to go to America?”

Malcolm’s expression twitched, taken by surprise. He dropped his eyebrows and composed himself, clearing his throat. “Well you know,” he said, being uncharacteristically diplomatic, “hind-fucking-sight being twenty-twenty and all that—”

Nicola’s felt the corners of her mouth drop into a grimace despite her best efforts not to react. Malcolm caught her expression falter.

He pieced together the real question she wouldn’t dare say out loud: she needed to know if Malcolm still held a grudge against her for the train wreck she caused at the helm of the party. She needed absolution. Did he blame her, still?  “Hey listen, I wouldn’t usually admit this— you did the right thing staying then, yeah?” he said, giving pause to nudge her with his elbow. He gave a forced laugh, trying to find levity but it broke into a long drawn out sigh. It was useless to lie to her, the regret was written all over her face. “Look, I should have stopped you running for leader at all cost. I could have saved us both a lot of fucking strife if I had just kneecapped you and locked you in a cupboard—that’s my fucking mistake.”

Nicola glance at him and smiled weakly. “I wish you had— it was James’ idea that I run for the leadership. I did it— foolishly— because that shithead convinced me it would be good for the both of us.” she said. “But more than anything, I wish I had told everyone to fuck off and taken the job at Yale. But you asked me—”

“—to stay.” Malcolm said, finishing her words. They sat on the bed in silence for a long time. He raised his hand, hesitating, and placed it over her clasped hands and squeezed. “I’m still asking.”


	14. Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> af·fair
> 
> əˈfe(ə)r  
> noun  
> plural noun: affairs
> 
> 1.
> 
> -an event or sequence of events of a specified kind or that has previously been referred to.
> 
> -a matter that is a particular person's concern or responsibility.
> 
> -matters of public interest and importance.
> 
> -business and financial dealings.
> 
> 2.
> 
> -a love affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the long wait! Thank you to those who took the time to leave me a comment or contact me trough Tumblr to make sure I was still alive. It helped to keep me motivated and return to writing when I could spare a moment.
> 
> I changed jobs late January and it's been a big personal upheaval in my schedule. I use to have a lot more free time for my hobbies but because I have to study for a certification program for my new position, it's left me with little time to do much else. Happily, if all goes well, I'll pass my exam by the end of April and I should find plenty more time to write over the summer months. 
> 
> This story is my baby, my pet project and as long as I have time, I'll keep writing. I'm also happy to announce that once this story wraps up, I have an idea for a sequel but it is in it's infancy of planning.

The sound of the heavy deadbolt door unlocking, opening and slamming shut alerted Nicola to Victoria’s arrival.

Nicola wrapped her hair in a towel and threw on her bathrobe; her skin still dripping after just getting out of the shower. She fumbled with the belt, making a clumsy knot and she rushed to get out into the hallway to intercept, what she knew would be, a malcontent Malcolm and an irate Victoria.

She swung the bathroom door open and nearly collided with Malcolm. He had shed his sweater—now topless—and traded his pyjama bottoms for pressed trousers. Malcolm stumbled backwards, surprised by Nicola’s sudden appearance in the hall, he grabbed her forearm to steady himself just as Victoria reached the threshold. She looked at the pairing with ire, her eyes darting between them, taking in their dishevelled appearances.

“Have I interrupted something?”

Malcolm dropped Nicola’s arm with the swiftness of someone coming into contact with leper. “Fuck off—” he said, a bit too quickly, “just go to the fucking living room, alright?”

Victoria threw up her hands and marched back the way she came. Malcolm drew a heavy breath through his nose and looked anywhere but at Nicola in her half-dressed state.

“Well that was—“Nicola faltered, not sure that saying ‘awkward’ would make the compromising situation less so. She glanced at him, “you best put a shirt on.”

Malcolm followed her gaze and glanced down at his own naked chest and then to Nicola, standing in her knee length bathrobe. “At least I’m wearing trousers.” he said and walked back into his bedroom. Nicola, flustered with slight reddening cheeks, clutched at her bathrobe like a scandalized nun in her habit. She hesitated but quickly followed into the bedroom and quietly shut the door behind her.

“How are we going to deal with that?” she said, pointing to the door.

“What in Christ’s name am I supposed to say about her getting off with that wanker?” he asked, turning to her as he pulled on a shirt and buttoned up his front. “We say nothing.”

“I’m not saying start a row—“Nicola said, trying her best to be diplomatic, “Shall I a talk to her?”

“Fuck no.”

“Malcolm—“

“Nicola—“

“—I won’t say anything to her now,” she interjected, cutting his protest short, “please trust me; I know I can talk to her. I could write her a book about fucking up relationships for politics— and vice versa. I’ll chat with her later when she’s calmed down.”

Malcolm’s stern face melted and he shrugged his shoulders. He gave Nicola a little flourish with his hand, blessing her plan of action. She broke into a smile; perhaps Malcolm was finally willing to treat her as an equal.

“How am I supposed to fucking say no to a woman standing in my bedroom without knickers?”

Nicola’s grin slid into a mock-frown. “Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes, “had I known that, I’d have flashed you my breasts years ago if I thought it would get me out of ‘shouty-pissy-Malcolm’ visits at DoSAC.”

Malcolm scratched his chin and then ran his fingers behind his neck, brushing through his hair, contemplating her words. He gave Nicola a devious smirk. “Well, tits out and you get a free pass next time, yeah?”

 “Oh fuck off.” Nicola batted at his arm. “Nothing to see here but mummy belly and middle-age sag.”

Malcolm chuckled, “We could compare your saggy tits to my droopy plums if that makes you feel any better. Neither one of us is in our prime, love.”

“That’s you paying me a backhanded compliment, isn't it?” she said, “You’re working awfully hard to see my tits.”

“I think you’re underestimating how hard men would work to see any pair of tits—tube sock funbags or not.”

A sharp knock accompanied a voice carrying through the door: “If I’m interrupting foreplay, I can come back later—for Christ’s sake.”

Nicola cringed and looked back at Malcolm. “Do you mind?” she said, nodding towards the door, “I should probably get dressed.”

“I would say ‘with pleasure,’” he said, giving her a disarmingly charming toothy grin, “but I’d rather stay and—”

“Just stop,” she said with a groan and pointed him to the door, “you've passed flattery— no brownie points awarded for bullshitting.”

Malcolm gave her a soft, closed mouth smile. He placed hand on Nicola’s shoulder, thumbing the plush fabric of her robe. The light touch sent a jolt up Nicola’s spine but she forced herself to keep a composed face; she raised her eyes to meet his with a quirk of her brow.

He playfully shook her by the shoulder. “Give yourself some credit— at least you don’t have an arse like Terri,” he said with a chuckle. He gave her a little pat on the shoulder before brushing past her, reaching for the doorknob.

* * *

 

Nicola could hear Victoria’s haughty voice carry down the hall as she exited the bedroom. She crept slowly to not be heard, hoping to eavesdrop before announcing her arrival.

“—so what?! He’s well connected and thinks I’m making a mistake not aligning myself with them.”

“He’s a fucking wanker who’s pushing his own agenda. Don’t put yourself in his back pocket because he’s willing to blow his load on you.” Malcolm growled.

“So you’re saying I should turn away his money because we’re _oh so much more_ principled than that?” Victoria spat back, “There’s a time and a place to fight that fight, and I thought our top priority is just to get me elected — is it not?”

“Oh fuck off, don’t play that card—“Malcolm paused, alerted by the sound of Nicola’s footsteps on the creaking wood floors.

Nicola cringed hard, acutely aware how bad it would look to be skulking to overhear their conversation. She straightened her back, cleared her throat loudly and rounded the corner into the living room. Victoria turned around, crossing her arms and giving a murderous glare. Malcolm elected to play dumb and ignore the intrusion.

“Would either of you like a cuppa?” Nicola said in her most neutral voice, feigning as if she had suddenly gone deaf between the bedroom and the living room.

“Would fucking love one.” Malcolm said and looked towards Victoria who had turned back to him, “Vic’?”

“None for me.” she said with the most sickly-sweet patronizing voice.  She picked up her purse and coat that she had tossed over the back of the armchair. “I really must be getting ready for the nomination meeting tonight.”

“No need to dash off,” Nicola said, “stay a while.”

Victoria forced a thin-lipped smile but opted out of responding. She quickly gathered her belongings and hurried out the door, shutting it a bit too forcefully.

Nicola turned on her heel slowly, daring only a brief glance at Malcolm before dropping her gaze. “Sorry.”

Malcolm appeared mostly unfazed, his face—which at best was a malcontent frown anyway— didn't knot itself into a harrowed scowl that might signal an oncoming row. “Well,” he said, “she was in right the cunty mood anyway.”

“Was that all about Alistair Elliott?” she asked, “I thought you were going to let me talk to her.”

“That was—“Malcolm waved a hand, exasperated. “Nothing. Just—forget it.”

“Was that about someone else?”

“No—just—fucking hell. Get the tea.”

Nicola threw up her hands. “Why is it that she’s always throwing a tantrum and you’re always keeping me out of the loop?”

“Oh I’m fucking sorry, I didn't think I had to CC you on every conversation,” Malcolm said and walked past Nicola to the kitchen where he opened up the cupboards and set out two teacups and dropped in the teabags.

“Well excuse me,” she said and followed after him, “I thought that was the whole point of our conversation this morning.”

He pulled out the kettle and filled it from the tap, “Nicola, we’re not a fucking buddy cop movie duo,” he said, plugging the cord into the wall. “You’re a subordinate; a fucking lackey.”

Nicola gave an exasperated sigh and crossed her arms and leaned up against the counter. Malcolm poured the hot water and handed her a cup. “Listen, I’m doing you a favour. You don’t need to take on Victoria’s fucking baggage.” he said, “And besides—plausible deniability.”

“I appreciate your consideration, Malcolm,” she said, “but I’m not going to fuck-about and let her screw both of us over for an election because you two appear to be locked in a suicidal tailspin over egos.”

Malcolm stood next to her, leaning on the counter and taking a drink of his tea. “Well, I've never been able to forgo a pissing match.”

* * *

 

Nicola stood beside, but did not touch, the grimy piss-yellow walls of the women’s loo in the Glasgow Riverfront Community Centre—the location for the evening’s nomination meeting. The room smelt putrid, it was the smell of enclosed bodily functions and disgusting flowery perfume which did nothing to mask the offending odours.

From the locked middle stall a voice called out: “There’s no toilet paper in here. Pass me a roll.”

Nicola rubbed her forehead; she felt certain all this frowning was giving her even more wrinkles. She nudged the door of the nearest stall open with her foot. She shuffled in, trying to float between cramp quarters and grab a roll without making contact with any surface more than she had to. Chalk it up to one of her many idiosyncrasies, public toilets grossed her out and the tiny stalls suffocated her.  She always used the disabled stalls, despite the many times her former aide, Helen, had scolded her.

“Politicians—let alone the party leader—shouldn't be seen in the disabled’s because it sends the wrong message,” Helen had said. Nicola recalled she told her to fuck off and stand guard and leave her piss alone in peace.

“Hello? Roll please, Nicola.”

“Right,” Nicola replied, shaking her head, coming back to reality, “sorry.” She carefully snaked her arm under the door of Victoria’s stall and handed her the roll then wiped her hands down the front of her skirt as she paced the room.

Victoria flushed the toilet, exited and washed her hands in the sink. “So—” she said, turning to Nicola and giving a pause for effect, “did the two of you enjoy your little talk about me?”

Nicola frowned, unsure what she could say to not inflame Victoria’s ire. “It’s not like we’re sitting around gossiping.” she said, “You will be happy to learn, and to Malcolm’s credit, he only discloses information on a need to know basis. I’m barely privy to most of his campaign strategies—I’m just a pawn.”

“Oh, so I’m wrong to believe that he didn't in fact stay the night in the flat,” Victoria said, “and the two of you half-dressed this morning ‘ _wasn't what it looked like?’_ ”

Nicola cringed forcefully and pinched the bridge of her nose. _Of course that’s the first thing she’d assume,_ she thought. “That _really_ wasn't what it looked like.”

Victoria’s eyebrows dropped into a sort of quizzical frown, as if she were trying to suss out any tell-tale signs of deceit but seemed to accept Nicola’s word. Victoria turned towards the door to leave but Nicola reached out and held onto her arm. “C-can I just say something, while we’re in the loo—lady’s privilege?” Nicola said, unsure how her advice would be received.

 “As a woman and a politician, you’re going to be under scrutiny from the moment you accept the nomination— Are you too young? Too old? Too ditzy or serious? A prude or a whore? You’re private life will be ripped apart and any negative associations will come back to fuck you over. You’ll be seen as either a bitch or someone’s lapdog— _please_ don’t give anyone more ammo with which to snipe you.”

Victoria’s lips curled into sneer, “I see now why Malcolm wanted to recruit you.” Her vicious smile broke into a wide Cheshire grin as she continued, “You do all his dirty work—that’s certainly was straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“I can assure you,” Nicola said, balling her hand into a fist, “I speak from my own experience as someone who has let politics ruin my family, destroy my marriage and cast me out from my own inner circle. If you’re too prideful to accept earnest advice, I can’t help you. I’m not telling you this on Malcolm’s behalf—I’m trying to spare you my mistakes.”

“My god, could you be more smothering?” she said, “You’re not my mother, Nicola. Christ, have you thought that maybe I, a successful businesswoman, would know how to conduct my own personal business without two washed up political hacks trying to manipulate me?”

“Oh come off it,” Nicola said, raising her voice to a shout, “you wouldn't hide all your meetings and affairs— _yes, affairs—_ if you didn't think there was something to hide from us!”

Contempt radiated from Victoria, she narrowed her eyes and huffed, baring her teeth in a very Malcolm-esque manner and matched Nicola’s yelling, “You are very much mistaken Nicola, if you think—“

With a hard knock, Malcolm sung the door to the women’s toilets open. He looked between the two women, both had moved into posturing with squared shoulders, trying their best to intimidate the other.

“Oi!” he shouted, “E-fucking-nuff! Instead of a nomination meeting I have two cunts fucking yelling at each other for everyone to overhear from the pissing toilets. Get the fuck out there, for fuck’s sake!”

Victoria shot a dark glaring look at Nicola then made an abrupt turn on her heels; she pushed past Malcolm and out the door. Nicola attempted a quick sidestep to follow after Victoria but Malcolm grabbed her by her upper arm and held her back.  “Jesus Christ, Nicola—”

“—oh don’t even,” she interrupted, “I’m right, she’s bloody wrong—”

“—you’re such a fucking pain in the arse, you fucking—”

“—well you’re a god damn massive fuckwit—“

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SHUT UP!”

With unexpected swiftness, Malcolm jerked Nicola forward by her arm and she fell against his chest. Suddenly his face was level to hers and closing in. With surprise urgency, he pressed his lips against hers.

It was perhaps the most awkward and alarming kiss she had received. Nicola’s body stiffened, never melting into Malcolm’s parted lips; she remained rigid in his arms. For anyone else caught up in such a moment, time might slow down or stop completely but for Nicola she was keenly aware of the full four seconds of contact. He released her arm as he pulled away and his expression betrayed his own surprise and chagrin.

He stepped back, rubbed his hand over his mouth and looked around the room in bewilderment. “Fuck.” He gave a moment’s glance at Nicola then bolted from the room.


	15. Indiscretion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indiscretions of things said and not said and done and not done.

 “Ah, fuck.” Nicola echoed Malcolm.

She sung the door open and exited the loo and looked up and down the hall for a trail of destruction and mayhem, not unlike that of a tornado ripping through a town leaving sobbing children and horrified elderly in its wake. Nicola heard hurried footsteps around the corner; she rushed to catch up.

“Malcolm,” she called out in a hushed growl, “Malc—“

Turning the corner, Nicola nearly collided with a large figure who grasped her by the shoulders, steadying her on her feet, “Whoa there!”

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered and looked up at the man she slammed into, “—John!”

John Fitzpatrick released Nicola and straightened his tie, giving her a warm smile. “Hello Nicola,” he said, “fancy literally bumping into you… but I’m guessing I’m not who you’re looking for.”

“Ah Christ, I’m sorry, John. I was just—“Nicola paused.

“Running after someone?” he said with a smirk, “You’ve got some red there,” and gestured to her mouth.

Her hand shot up. “Oh— th-thanks.” She traced a finger around the edge of her lower lip, wiping away the lipstick stain.

“You know, I’m glad I ran into you.” he said, “I was thinking to myself this morning that Victoria could use more help with this whole by-election and it prompted me to reconsider my donation—“

“—you’ve already been quite generous, John. We’d never impose for another donation.”

“Lucky for you,” he said, pulling a slip of paper from his breast pocket, “I’m _very_ generous by nature and I consider it my duty to help my friends where I can.” He held out the cheque to Nicola. “I know they would do the same for me.”

Nicola raised her eyes to his face and John’s expression slid into an unsettling simper. He cocked his eyebrow, edging Nicola to take the money. She reached out, fingers nearly brushing the paper, and then recoiled, balling her hand. She gave John a thin-lipped smile. “Future investments,” she said, recalling John’s own words at the social gathering the night before. “—like I said, we would never impose.”

John ran his fingers along the edge of the cheque and tugged the paper, producing a percussive pop. He folded the cheque and returned it to his pocket and then ran is hands over his lapel. “I hope Victoria won’t be too mad that you turned down a donation.”

“I would hope that I wouldn’t have to justify myself,” she said, sensing his indignation, “we appreciate your original donation but any more and it could be seen as ostentatious and unseemly and therefor I must insist that we cannot accept another cheque.” Nicola gave a little bow of the head and skirted around John.

Her high heels echoed down the hall as she hurried away but just before she turned the corner John called out her name and on instinct she halted and looked back at him. “Malcolm Tucker,” he said and paused to see the flicker of trepidation in her eyes, “he was who you were looking for, was he not?”

Nicola opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it and instead turned the corner out of sight.

* * *

 

Nicola entered the meeting hall and looked around desperately for Malcolm; she wanted to tell him of her encounter with John Fitzpatrick. The room was filling up quickly; people filed in and sat down in the rows of dingy folding chairs.  Nicola, not being a particularly tall woman, had difficulty peering over the tops of the masses. She tried to manoeuver through the crowd but before she could push her way through, a squat old lady redirected her to take a seat, waving her arms at her like she was shooing a dog out the garden.

“Excuse me, I have to—“

“Git yer arse sat. Nm’nation b’out tae start.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Nicola said, slightly taken aback.

“She said ‘sit the fuck down.’” Appearing at her side, Jaime reached past Nicola and grasped the old woman’s hand and they exchanged brief pleasantries.

Nicola; visibly bristled, tried to temper the grimace pulling at the corners of her mouth and hold onto her faux smile. “Jaime,” she said through gritted teeth as they sat down next to each other, “how _unnecessary_ of you to show up.”

“What, and miss the massive fucking train wreck and carnage?” he said, “I told you I’d be covering the nomination. Between the Barefoot Cuntessa and that poof, Graham Harris, I could sell this double bill to _Cirque du Soleil_ as the best self-fellating contortionist routine.”

“Yes well,” she muttered, “I bet you’ll do Victoria justice.”

“Oh?” Jaime leaned and threw and arm over the back of her chair, “Is something rotten in the constituency of Glasgow fuckin’ South?”

Nicola’s first reaction was to stiffen, caught in a slip of the tongue, momentary panic took hold as she contemplated the many ways Malcolm would flay her for such a stupid indiscretion. In a moment of clarity, she instead raised her eyes and calmly met his stare. Nicola purposefully said nothing more; she gave Jaime a neutral look, leaving him slightly dumbstruck as her eyed her.

Before Jaime could regain his composure and berate Nicola with more sweary abuse, a rotund man at the front of the hall stood up and called out over the murmuring crowd: “Settle, settle down. I call this meeting to order.

“The rules for contested nominations are simple—No nominations from the floor. All potential candidates have had to submit their paperwork to the executive and it has been reviewed for eligibility. They were also required to collect sixty signatures from residents of the constituency.”

The man paused; he looked positively smug basking his own self-importance, and cleared his throat. “Without further ado, I request the two sole persons who have met the requirements please join me at the front for speeches.”

Victoria, whom Nicola had up until now lost in the crowd (perhaps purposefully), stood up and waved with regal poise as the crowd roared and clapped. Nicola joined in the clapping with slightly too much gusto in an attempt masquerade her disdain—fully aware that Jaime was observing her.

Victoria’s natural grace and ease with the public was in stark contrast to Graham Harris who looked like a weak-kneed doe fumbling over his own legs and those of his neighbours. Finally righting himself, he waived meekly and joined Victoria at the front of the hall, shaking hands with her and the meeting’s Chair.

It was with either admirable politesse or great cunning that Victoria graciously insisted, gesturing towards the podium, that Graham should speak first.

Graham leaned into the microphone and nearly pressed his lips to it as he mumbled “tes-testing, testing.” The feedback loop screeched an echo into the hall and the crowd cringed.

As Graham wallowed his way through his speech, Nicola eyed Jaime’s notebook. He had written ‘muttering monotonous wheezy phlegm-bag’ and ‘drones on more than James May reading the ingredients off a box of Frosties.’ In the margins he had scribbled a drawing of crude but unmistakable likeness of Graham deep-throating a veiny cock. Nicola barely registered a word of his speech before he was finished. To Jaime’s merit—as far as Nicola could tell—he got the gist of Graham’s speech with his few unflattering notes.

 Victoria’s mouth twisted into a thin lipped smile, obviously resisting breaking out into a gleeful toothy grin as she clapped for Graham. With elegance and grace, she took up her place at the podium and looked into the crowd and basked in their energy as they now applauded for her. She mouthed ‘thank you, thank you,’ as she gestured for her supporters to settle.

“Thank you, friends,” she said, “I am thrilled to be here this evening, with all of you. It is always so inspiring to see so many who come to support me. Your encouragement is why I’m seeking the candidacy for Glasgow South because I’m confident with my experience, I can best represent you all in parliament—“

Jaime leaned in to Nicola and whispered in her ear, “Yeah, I bet she’s the best multitasker too—self-congratulate and self-masturbate.” 

“Shut. Up.” Nicola hissed, trying to keep her attention on Victoria.

“Look,” Jaime said and nudged her arm, he showed his notebook. He had completed his drawing of Graham gagging on the veiny cock by attaching the appendage to Victoria. Nicola let out a scandalized gasp and pushed the notebook aside and glared at Jaime.

“—together we will bring prosperity to Glasgow. I personally guarantee that if I am elected to parliament, I will implement a jobs strategy that will create at least a thousand new jobs—“

“How does she fuckin’ plan to create a thousand new jobs? Is she hiring for her sex dungeon?” Jaime snickered quietly. “—I’d sign up to fuck her mouth.”

“Please kindly shut the  _fuck_ up,” Nicola said under her breath, “or I’ll have you evicted.”

“Relax; I’m just taking the piss, pet.”

“—thank you all, once again, and I hope you’ll make the right choice to represent you in this by-election.” Victoria said, wrapping up her speech and waved to the applauding crowd.

“I don’t know who talked more shite,” Jaime said, leaning back in his chair, “she’s a condescending bitch with an agenda but Harris just might choke on his own tongue—with any luck.”

Nicola rolled her eyes and gave him an exasperated sigh. Luckily, before Jaime could delve into more ideas about the candidates, the meeting Chair announced the voting method: a vote by a show of hands. It would be easy to count since the supporters mostly separated themselves down each side of the hall like a wedding party.  To no one’s surprise, Victoria carried the vote. She shook hands with Graham, the meeting Chair and the sour-faced President and Vice-President of the executive, Frank Rooney and Bill Wallace.

After all pleasantries were exchanged, Rooney leaned in and whispered something into the ear of the Chair. He looked up and scanned the room, and then he approached the podium, cleared his throat; finally locking eyes with Nicola.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he called out, “congratulations again to our new candidate, Victoria Innis, for Glasgow South—I’m sure she’ll do us proud.

“Now before I call this meeting adjourned, it has been brought to my attention that we have a special guest among the crowd. Perhaps if she would be so kind, Nicola Murray, former Labour Leader and Campaign Manager for Victoria, would say a few words.”

Nicola’s breath caught in her chest as a wave of anxiety flooded her body. The crowd now all turned and looked, trying to spot her among the people. Those nearest seemed to have locked on to her and they stared her down with a quizzical gaze. A cold sweat of terror washed over her and she desperately looked for the nearest exit to bolt from the room.

“Go on,” Jaime whispered, almost in an encouraging tone, “just make some shite up.”

Nicola stood up and fixed her blouse and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She walked up to the front of the room and caught Victoria’s eye. She looked positively murderous for Nicola daring to steal any of her glory.

Adjusting the microphone at the podium and leaned in, “H-hello,” she said and a hushed silence engulfed the room, “I hope you’ll all forgive me, I wasn’t prepared to make a speech but th-thank you for inviting me to talk to you a little bit.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to also thank you for supporting Victoria. We’ll need all of your help during the campaign to elect her to continue the legacy of a strong Labour representative for Glasgow South.”

The crowd gave no reaction; they didn’t break into applause or silently nod along— no momentum was building between Nicola and the crowd. She looked around the room and for the first time since the ‘incident’, she spotted Malcolm, stern face, standing at the back of the hall with crossed arms.

“Y’know, if I could just be a bit candid here for a moment,” she said, catching Malcolm’s eye, “I-ah, I know maybe I wasn’t the most _popular_ of leaders—it could be why I’m now a campaign manager.” Finally the crowd broke out into a chuckle and Malcolm appeared to smile at her but just as quickly wiped it away.  

“Really, I’d just like to thank all of you here today who have come out in support of our two candidates. Participating in democracy, I’m sure you all know, isn’t a sexy or exciting past-time—it’s a duty and not just a privilege —which is why we need to protect it. Democracy is for the people, but if the people don’t take it upon themselves to participate, individuals with an agenda take advantage of it and think democracy can be _bought_.

“Politicians forget this, too. We forget that we’re here to represent your interests. It is for this reason that I ask each and every one of you to promise that you will remind us; your representatives, it is only with the power you bestow onto us that we are allowed to serve you. 

“We’re not perfect, we fuc—aahh—we _mess up_.” The crowd roared with laughter and Nicola gave a sheepish grin, “—see, that’ll be all over the papers tomorrow—

“But I promise you, Glasgow, I’ll— _we’ll_ do our best for you, not because it’s _our_ duty, but because it is what you deserve.” Nicola said, “Again, thank you so much for your support.”

And to Nicola’s surprise the crowd applauded loudly. They clapped and cheered for her, possibly more than any group of people ever had for Nicola in her whole career. Some people got on their feet and reached out to shake her hand as she walked past back to her seat.

Upon her return, Jaime rubbed his chin and gave a wily smirk. “Are you campaigning for Victoria or for yourself?” he said, “Because you just pissed all over her parade.”

Nicola scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Nonsense,” she said, “that was off the cuff bollocks. What else was I going to say on the spot?”

“Don’t fucking get me wrong—“he said, “I fucking love that you just firebombed your own candidate—you almost had me convinced that you aren’t the same spastic leader you once were.”

Nicola ran her tongue over her front teeth, she dwelled on her words. The meeting was adjourned and the congregation of supporters shuffled out. A few more people approached her and offered their congratulations and shook her hand earnestly. Nicola stood up with Jaime still at her side; she looked around the room hoping Malcolm was skulking in a corner but he had vanished. The pair walked together and Jaime checked his mobile before shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

“Well, back to the office,” he said, “deadlines to meet, entitled cunts to eviscerate.”

Nicola hummed and nodded slowly. “It was—surprisingly—almost a pleasure, Jaime.”

“Ha!” he barked, “Fuck off, love.” And with a wave he threw the double doors open and made his exit.


	16. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes nothing means nothing, or everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I just want to draw your attention to the change in rating. You've been warned. 
> 
> Secondly, thank you all for your patience! I spent most of July, August and September working on an election so I didn't have much time to write about politics as I was busy living politics. My friends are use to me disappearing for months at a time to work on a campaign and they know that I'm pretty much dead to the world during and for a few weeks after it all wraps up. 
> 
> The bad news about my stint in politics is that my party lost. We put on a near flawless campaign, really something to be proud of (besides a few blips) but we didn't win a single seat. That is the heartache of being a 3rd party. I thought I'd be more devastated but losing is pretty normal so far in my political career so I'm just brushing it off as another learning experience. 
> 
> The good news though is that I always come back from politics with more ideas to write about. I might devote some time to another TToI fic while in between writing this one since I usually produce a chapter and need downtime. Thanks again for everyone who waits patiently for the next chapter, I appreciate your feed back and encouragement!

_Knock… Knock… Knock…_

The soft rapping at the door caught Nicola mid-sentence, a highlighter in hand, as she underlined a passage in a book in her lap. She paused to listen, and unmistakeably another succession of quiet knocks echoed off the heavy entrance door.

As she approached the door, she glanced back at the large face clock hanging in the hallway as she put her hand on the doorknob—1:45AM.

She cracked the door open and standing beyond the threshold was Malcolm.

“Can I come in?”

“It’s your flat.” Nicola said and closed the door, slid the chain off the latch and swung the door fully open. She looked him over quickly, his hair was tussled and his suit wrinkled. He averted his gaze, keeping his line of sight above her head, as he walked past her and into the living room.

Nicola wrinkled her nose. “Have you been drinking?”

“Nah,” he said, “just a nightcap.”

“—or five or six?”

Malcolm spun around and ran his hands through his hair. He looked around wildly, inspecting the nooks Nicola had carved out for herself in his flat. She had piles of books and reports on the coffee table, her favourite mug with the remnants of cold tea, a heavy-knit jumper and a blanket piled on the couch like a nest.

“You’ve definitely made yourself at home.”

“Yes,” she said and waved her hand, “that’s what people do when they occupy space.”

“Oh you do occupy a lot of space.” Malcolm said, rubbing his fingers into his temple and closed his eyes.

Nicola cocked her eyebrow and pursed her lips, amused by his strange behaviour. “Are you _upset_ with me?” she asked.

Malcolm cracked an eye open, he seemed to be taken aback. “Upset?” he said and shook his head in disbelief.

“I mean, I was caught off guard but I enjoyed it—”

“Just to be clear here—”

“—and it was decent speech, right?”

“—that kiss meant nothing.”

“What?” Nicola paused and took a beat to process Malcolm’s words. “Oh— _that_.” and again mouthed another silent ‘oh’ before drawing a breath through her teeth and breaking into a chuckle, “I wasn’t under no such illusions.”

Malcolm blinked a few times, obviously not the answer he expected, caught on the back foot. “Good,” he muttered, “good.”

Nicola paused and crossed her arms, waiting for some sort of cue from Malcolm. She waited a full ten seconds before she cleared her throat, “Was it supposed to mean something?”

Malcolm recoiled. “Don’t be fucking stupid!”

“Oh, but you apparently thought I’d be some sort of lovesick idiot, yeah?”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea pet,” he said, “I just needed you to shut the fuck up.”

Nicola rolled her eyes. “Oh yes of course, if _that’s_ all it was,” she said with bitterness, “rest assured I won’t be throwing myself at your feet.”

“The only place I want you fucking throwing yourself is down the stairs.”

Nicola’s mouth fell open in anger. “Oh, fuck off! Are you really so disappointed that I’m not fucking _enthralled_ with you—so what?—so you can manipulate me?” She balled her fist and stormed up to him mere inches away with squared shoulders and looked up into his face. “You’re an unbelievable arse and I can see right through your fucking posturing. “

“Posturing?” he said and barked a laugh, “I’ve never fucking postured anything in my life, love.”

“Then why are you here?” she said, giving him a hard glare of contempt.

“Oh, don’t you fucking look at me like that. It’s my fucking flat!” he said and spun around waving his arms wildly. “You mean absolutely _nothing_ to me!” Suddenly it was clear, he was disarmed, exposed and vulnerable.

Nicola caught him by his forearms.“Ok—ok, I get it.” She dropped her voice, “It really didn’t mean anything to me—don’t worry. I’m a married woman, well an almost-divorced woman—with children. I didn’t—and don’t— expect any sort affection from you.”

Malcolm felt her soft fingers clutch at his sleeves; he relented and grasped her hands. With a great sigh, he dropped his defenses for it didn’t matter, he knew as well as Nicola.

He leaned into her and bowed his head closer. “…if it means nothing to you,” he muttered, “and it means nothing to me…”

He raised a hand to her face and brushed it against her cheek and brought his face closer and closer to hers, hesitating. Nicola bridged the distance and kissed him softly; Malcolm wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss.

Nicola felt frozen in time, locked in Malcolm’s embrace until he pulled away. He mouthed something but she lost her sense of hearing in storm of muffed stereo noise. She nodded, hoping it was the right response, which to Malcolm it must have been what he hoped for as he took her by the hand led her past her piles of books and his piles of unironed shirts to his bedroom where he ushered her in and quietly closed the door behind him.

He drew up his hand, hesitating in mid-air, and then slipped his fingers behind Nicola’s ear, entwining them into her hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled her towards him, touching his forehead to hers.

Maybe this was a delusion; maybe she was actually asleep on the couch. He pressed his lips to hers again, his scruff rubbing against her chin and cheek. Her senses returned to her—the sound of his heavy breathing, the taste of whisky on his tongue. Nicola’s racing pulse felt too real, she could hear the thunderous pounding in her ears. She could feel the warmth of his body under his jumper. He withdrew his hand and his lips but Nicola caught herself clutching his sleeve and leaning in further to reconnect. He obliged with a longer and deeper kiss, lingering there.

“This,” Nicola said, pulling back from him slightly to catch her breath, “might be a mistake.”

Malcolm’s solution to Nicola’s fretting was to lean in closer and kiss the edge of her jaw and trail his lips down to the crook of her neck and burying his face there. He grazed the tips of his fingers down her side, tracing the seam of her dress over her curves, down to the hem. Malcolm’s hand found the softness of her bare leg, her inner thigh warm from being pressed together. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, finding her mental resolve.

Nicola moved her hands to the bottom of Malcolm’s jumper and slipped her slightly cool hands over his warm skin. He flinched, stomach muscles contracting. He shot her a look of annoyance but her brazen smirk defied him as she tugged on the heavy wool and pulled it up and over his head. She’d have him exposed before he got to her.

“Turn ‘round,” Malcolm said, twirling his finger, “dress off.”

Nicola arched an eyebrow; Malcolm knew the game she was playing. He wouldn’t let her strip him first. Yet without protest, she turned her back to him and allowed him to train the zipper down. Malcolm reached out from behind her and pulled the sleeves off her shoulders, exposing her lacy bra.

He ran his fingers up and down the length of her back, admiring her skin goosing up and the slight shiver passing through her. She eyed him from over her shoulder as he rested his fingers on the tiny clasps binding the sheer fabric to her chest.

“Leave that,” she said, like a mother scolding a child.

Nicola turned around, tugged on her sleeves to free her arms and let her dress slide to the floor. She felt a little nervous showing off her body, aware that her days of a trim waist and a shapely bum were long gone. She awkwardly held her arms over her chest, trying to maintain a bit of modesty in the most ‘natural’ unnatural way possible.

Malcolm grabbed her hands and pushed her arms to her sides. “Stop that.” he said, guessing at her embarrassment. He cupped her breasts covered in sheer fabric and ran his fingers over her nipples. Nicola finally obliged and let Malcolm strip her of her bra.

Nicola inhaled sharply, trying to regain some composure. “Trousers,” she said, turning the attention away from her nakedness.

Malcolm obliged and hooked his thumb under his waistband as he did the button and zipper. He slipped the trousers down and kicked them off his feet. His last article of clothing, black cotton boxer briefs, were doing nothing to hide his arousal. He gently led Nicola to his bed and laid next to her, he was propped up on his elbows; she sat with her legs under her.

Nicola reached out a shaking hand and ran her fingers over Malcolm’s chest. She brushed the wispy grey hair and traced her finger down to his navel and followed the trail to his waistband. She raised her eyes to look at Malcolm’s face, the sharp edges and the deep creases around his eyes all had softened. He looked completely taken in by her touch, not lifting his eyes away from her trailing hand.

She pushed the tips of her fingers under the fabric and enclosed his penis in her hand. Malcolm bucked his hips at the firm touch and let out a gentle hiss, thrusting into Nicola’s grasp. His hands snaked his way to his hips, quickly pulling down his pants.

Nicola, on her knees, leaned over and parted her lips over the head of his cock. She relaxed and let it glide to the back of her throat; she held it in her mouth and worked his foreskin with her tongue before bobbing her head up and down in a rhythmic motion.

“Bloody Jesus Christ,” Malcolm groaned, his fingers tangled themselves in Nicola’s hair, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum if you go on like that.”

Nicola’s response was to work him over harder, stroking him with one hand as she rolled her tongue over his erection producing another guttural reaction from him. He pulled on her arm and forced her to pivot around; he sat up and met her half way. He kissed her swollen lips, rolling his tongue against hers.

“Lay down.” he said, shifting in bed to give Nicola space.

“It’s alright,” she said, waving him away, “that’s fine— I don’t expect—“

Malcolm’s frown returned. “It’s not a request,” he said, “this is for me.” He grasped her shoulder and gently pushed her down to rest her head on a pillow. He crawled over and positioned himself between her legs. “Take them off.”

“Please, Malcolm,” she said, feeling the heat creep over her cheeks “that’s really not—“

In one smooth motion Malcolm braced his arm against her hips to stop her from squirming away as he stripped away her last sense of decency. She covered her head with her arms and shut her eyes tight. James had seldom, and only with protest, gone down on her.

Malcolm trailed kisses and licked her inner thighs; he teased his way right up to the crook of her leg and pelvis and moved away again. Nicola took sharp breaths, holding them longer each time in anticipation for the first brush of his tongue. “Stop that— if I look up and you’ve turned blue I’m fucking not resuscitating you.” he said and lightly bit her thigh. Nicola jumped, dropping her arms.

Malcolm took the opportunity to lap his tongue over her folds, and again. She bucked against him, her hand suddenly running through Malcolm’s hair, clawing at him. He parted her with his fingers, drawing one of her lips into his mouth and lightly sucked.

Trying with all her might not to snap her legs closed, she squirmed against Malcolm as she also at once guided his head with one hand and bit the back of her other hand to stifle her whimpers. Malcolm slipped two fingers inside her as he licked and caressed her, taking great pleasure in making Nicola’s legs tremble.

With a great shudder, Nicola let out a howl and pulled away from Malcolm and curled in on herself. He moved up her body and kissed and bit her tender skin lightly from her hips to her neck. Malcolm cradled her body in his; he reached from over her shoulder and kissed her face. She turned her head and met his kisses with her lips, the taste of her wetness lingering with the whisky.

She guided him and the head of his cock brushed against her folds. Malcolm kissed her back before gruffly mumbling, “May I?”

Nicola hummed and pushed her hips down letting him slide into her. He rocked his hips against her, taking long deep strides. He grasped her breasts with one hand and snaked the other over her hip, reaching to feel his cock enter her.

 Malcolm rocked hard against her, gripping her hips and ass, kissing her neck and back. He slowed his thrusts and removed himself before rolling Nicola on her back and lifting her legs over his shoulders to fuck her harder, deeper. Nicola trashed around, moaning out a string of profanities mixed in with _oh gods_ as she scratched at Malcolm’s chest and arms.

Malcolm panted hard, his rhythm falling out of sync. “Nic—Nicola,” he gasped, “I’m going to—“

“Yes,” she moaned, “ _yes—fuck yes!_ ” She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck and with one last thrust, Malcolm collapsed on top of her. He pressed his forehead against her chest and kissed her breasts lightly as he lay there, catching his breath.

Some time later, after having regained their strength, Nicola and Malcolm untangled themselves and lay in bed looking up at the ceiling; the first ray of morning light peaked in the window and stained the room in a dim orange glow. Nicola curled against Malcolm and fell into a deep sleep. Malcolm traced his fingers over her shoulders and played with strands of her hair before sighing and closing his eyes.

* * *

 

Nicola awoke and stretched her body, giving a loud groan. Her muscles ached, her body stiff. She spied the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed, 10:40am. She groped behind her, searching for Malcolm, then turned around and found nothing but an empty bed.


	17. Versus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shrewd, calculating and cunning-- Nicola plays her cards right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! I've bee naughty and postponed this chapter by a few days just to post it on Christmas. I hope you're all enjoying your holidays and thank you again for reading, commenting and being awesome people.

Nicola wrapped herself in her bathrobe and walked to the kitchen to put on the kettle. She listened to the water boil, the steam build to a whistle—the only sound penetrating the silence of the flat.

She couldn’t say she was surprised that she woke up to find Malcolm had fled. It was probably for the best that they avoid the awkward morning after chat. They both agreed, and she knew it to be for the best, that last night was just sex. In fact, Nicola felt a sort of pride in her ability to remain detached. Courting Malcolm would almost certainly be hellish but _fucking_ Malcolm was... 

Nicola’s thoughts of Malcolm— his head between her legs and his hands all over her body—were pierced by a thunderous succession of knocks at the door. And again, it came as no surprise to Nicola that when she swung the door open, on the other side was Victoria who looked ready to punch a hole through the door if it dared to resist her abuse any longer.

“I’m sorry,” Nicola said, deadpan, “I didn’t hear you knock.”

Victoria’s face twisted, her best features mangled by her fury. She pushed past Nicola and stomped around the flat, as if she were searching for something.

“Where is he?” she said, holding herself back from shouting.

“Where is who?” Nicola replied, “Malcolm?”

“Yes, _fucking_ Malcolm!”

“He’s not here.”

Victoria pulled a folded newspaper from her purse and threw it down on the coffee table. “Really,” she said with scathing contempt, “well done, Nicola.”

Nicola picked up the paper and scanned the page:

* * *

 

**LABOUR NOMINATION, CONFUSED SUPPORTERS**

_Jamie MacDonald_

_Political Editor_

 

Labour candidate, Victoria Innis, found herself upstaged during the nomination meeting to replace late MP, Andy McCullough. Innis defeated the only other contender, Graham Harris, to win the nomination.

To the surprise of the audience, Nicola Murray the former Labour Opposition Leader, made her own foray back onto the political scene with an impromptu rally speech garnering a loud round of applause from the audience. Murray’s sudden appearance at party events might signal a comeback with a roar and a new attitude instead of her usual dour disposition. Her sojourn away from Westminster seems to have given her a new outlook on politics as she urged the crowd to participate in the political process to hold elected officials accountable.

Murray is Innis’ campaign manager, however many audience members were confused by her speech as she pledged to serve Glasgow with honesty and integrity.

“I promise you, Glasgow, we’ll do our best for you, not because it’s our duty, but because it is what you deserve.” Murray said to the audience.

The by-election will be held on the 17th of November. No other party has yet to field a candidate, nominations close October 15th.

* * *

 

 “Well,” Nicola said and folded the paper under her arm, “that’s unfortunate.”

“Bloody unfortunate.” Victoria clenched her jaw and folded her arms over her chest. “I hope you’re happy.”

Nicola raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” she said, “Do you think I asked Jamie to write that?

“I didn’t say ‘Hey Jamie, could you please sabotage my candidate with an unflattering write-up?’—because that would _definitely_ benefit me.”

“I’m calling Malcolm.” Victoria said and mashed fingers on her mobile.

From the far end of the flat, the unmistakable muffled sound of Malcolm’s mobile called out. Victoria eyes widened, glancing at Nicola before rushing towards the door to the bedroom. She scanned the room, trying to locate the source of the ringing but Nicola, scrambling to catch up, dropped to her knees and fished the mobile from under the bed, knowing it must have fallen out of Malcolm’s pocket the night before.

“Give it here.” Victoria commanded.

Nicola picked herself off the floor, clutching the phone to her chest. “I’ll return it to him.”

Victoria’s nostrils flared, angered by Nicola’s defiance. “Why is his mobile on the floor in your bedroom?”

“He…” Nicola tried earnestly to think quickly, “…must have dropped it?” she said and mentally cringed.

“I’m not an idiot, Nicola.” Victoria said, “You said he wasn’t here.”

“No,” Nicola responded, weighing her choice of words, “when I said he wasn’t here I was implying _presently_.”

“Don’t play word games.” she said, “ _When_ was he here? _Why_ was he here? I have little patience left and if I don’t get answers I’m taking bloody issue with YOU, Nicola.”

Malcolm appeared at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. “Ah just fuckin’ give it a rest, Victoria.”  

“Oh of course,” Victoria said, throwing up her arms, “exceptional timing, Malcolm.”

Malcolm looked to Nicola and nodded, “Phone.” he said and stuck out his hand. Nicola obliged and handed the mobile over.

“Why are you having a fit?” he said.

“Didn’t you see the paper this morning?” Victoria said; her voice shrill. “Nicola here did a bloody fine job making me look like a tit.”

Malcolm glowered and crossed his arms. “Victoria—that’s just Jamie being a cunt to fuck with you.” he said, “Nicola’s a fuckin’ macaroni art project—it’s cute but the effort doesn’t equate fine art.

People liked it because she’s a fuckin’ spastic who gave an admirable performance—for a spastic. Don’t fuckin’ make it out to be more than that.”

“Gee, thanks Malcolm.”

“Don’t fucking speak.” he snapped, putting up a hand to Nicola’s face, “She’s right though—you’re a fuckin’ idiot for going up there in the first place.”

Nicola face dropped, she wasn’t sure what she expected from Malcolm but being thrown under the bus stung more than she could have anticipated.

“So how do you propose we deal with Jamie?” Victoria said.

“We don’t.” Malcolm replied, “Let him write shit.”

“Or let me talk to him.”

Victoria turned to Nicola an eyed her. “So he can write another wank piece about you?”

“Ah, no,” Nicola said “I was just thinking maybe I can convince him to retract—”

“He won’t fuckin’ retract.”

Victoria mulled it over silently for a moment, pursing her lips, deep in thought. “Make him write a fucking glowing profile piece.” she said, “That’s how you can fix this—otherwise you can fuck off right back to London.”

Nicola’s heart sank, a full profile piece on Victoria emphasizing how much _not_ a massive cunt she was would be difficult with even the tamest journalist. She was being sent into the wolf’s lair to ask him to play nice, should she make it out unscathed would be miraculous. 

 _Oh,_ she thought, _he was sat next to me!_ Nicola knew immediately that she had a weapon to use against Jamie.

But yet again, Nicola could walk away. Victoria certainly wanted to see the back of her.

She looked to Malcolm, his face sever, but not marked with the usual harsh lines of blistering rage. Nicola wondered if it was a ruse. Just then, as if he read her thoughts, Malcolm lifted his eyes and held her stare; he nodded.

“Fine,” Nicola said, shifting her gaze to Victoria “I’ll get you a profile piece.”

“I expect it by the end of the week.” Victoria said and turned away to leave but stopped in her tracks and turned to Malcolm. Her face darkened, giving a most dangerous look. “Next time you should take care to not drop your mobile.”

Victoria’s curt exit left Nicola with a chill, the warning was clear. She stood in the bedroom, the scene of the crime, with Malcolm. She turned her back on him and busied herself picking up articles of clothing and folding them.

From down the hall, the slamming of the door alerted them to Victoria’s departure. Nicola and Malcolm were alone.

Malcolm pulled out his mobile and scrolled through his contacts. “I’ll have a word with Jamie—”

“Excuse me,” Nicola said, whipping back around to face him, “I can take care of that, thank you very much—even if I’m a fucking spastic.”

“Don’t take fucking offence, darling.” he said, “No preferential treatment.”

Pulling a sneer, Nicola replied: “I wouldn’t expect anything else— _darling_.”

Malcolm fidgeted, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Alright—alright that was—that was for her. I didn’t mean it, alright?” 

Suddenly Nicola became keenly aware that the dynamic had shifted again, it felt so strange to have Malcolm relent, almost tamed. “I know,” she said, softening her demeanour; she didn’t have the heart to make him sweat it out.

She slipped past Malcolm and he followed her to the living room where she collected her heavy coat and thick-knitted scarf. He sat on the arm of the couch with arms crossed, watching her button up. He leaned against the wall, trying his best to be nonchalant. 

“Going now?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking back from the door, “I got this.”

* * *

 

Nicola sat in the stiff cantilever chair in the dimly lit office, hidden from the sprawling cubicle maze through frosted glass walls; she massaged her hands nervously as she waited for Jamie.

She had anticipated resistance at the lobby of the Glasgow Sun and pre-emptively psyched herself up for a fight; ready to channel some Glaswegian spirit, if the receptionist blocked her from seeing Jamie. It was much to her surprise that the old woman minding the desk had barely registered Nicola blustering up, _demanding_ to see him.

The woman blinked at her slowly, picked up her receiver and called up to Jamie’s office and exchanged a few words with someone on the other end.

Putting down the receiver, she said: “His assistant says he’s in a meeting.”

“Alright,” Nicola said, annoyance creeping into her voice, “I want to schedule a meeting.”

“Oh,” the woman said, pausing far too long, “she said he’ll see you once he’s done.”

Nicola rolled her eyes. “Right,” she said, “shall I just go up then?”

The women handed her a visitor’s pass and pointed to the log book to sign in. Apparently this woman’s preferred method of communication was telepathy. But then again every spare spoken word in the building, Nicola imagined, was probably reserved for Jamie to shout at his underlings.

* * *

 Here she was, in his office, sitting in his guest chair as she patiently waited to see him.  She spied his desk: files piled high in one corner, newspaper cut-outs with angry red pen markings littered about, and a decorative glass paperweight with a large chip. Nicola mused that Jamie might have used it to hit an intern over the head.

Like a gust of wind catching a sheet, the office door swung open and in came Jamie like a storm. “What are you doin’ in my fuckin’ office?” he said and threw his laptop bag by his desk.

Nicola cringed at the crashing sound of the heavy bag against the sturdy desk. “Look,” she said, “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“Then why fuckin’ come here at all?”

“You know exactly why I’m here.” she said, “You manipulated that story, you set me up.”

“Are you questioning my fuckin’ journalistic integrity?” he said, “I wrote the story I observed.”

“Jamie, you _encouraged_ me to go up there, you know fully well you interfered—” Nicola said, “You crossed a line.”

“So with that in mind, I’m doing my due diligence as her Campaign Manager,” she said, “I’m asking you to write a decent profile piece to make amends.”

Jamie snorted a laugh. “No.”

Nicola shrugged with an exaggerated sigh and said: “That’s it then, thank you for your time.” She got up out of her chair and pulled her coat over her shoulders.

Jamie was taken aback. “What are you doing?”

Nicola blinked, feigning ignorance; she continued to button her coat. “I set out to ask you politely and you said no so now I must be going—I have another appointment with a lovely journalist from the BBC.” she said, “I told you I wouldn’t take up too much of your time.”

“Is this some sort of pissin’ joke?”

“No,” she said, “I told Victoria and Malcolm I would come here myself and ask you. Victoria said if I fail I’m not to return but I think she’ll forgive me if I bury you in bad press for influencing a story—I know enough people who will vouch that you were sitting next to me at that meeting.

“We both know she can be a prat so I won’t ask to kiss her ass,” she said, “but I recommend you play nice.”

 “Fuck you, I owe you nothing. You have some big fuckin’ balls,” he said, “get the fuck out.”

* * *

Nicola exited into the frigid autumn air leaving behind the offices of the Glasgow Sun, mulling over her fate. Her mobile buzzed in her pocket and upon picking it up and reading the screen, a victorious smirk pulled at her lips. 

**From: Jamie MacDonald**

**To: Nicola Murray**

KATIE KEIR—SHE’LL BE IN TOUCH.


End file.
